Somewhen I was Meant to Be
by annj
Summary: In 1999 Sam dies on a hunt. It was an accident or at least that's what John and Dean keep telling themselves until eight years later a dying woman tells them to find him, to find Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Somewhen I was Meant to Be**

Written by annj_g80

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Gen

**Characters:** Sam, Dean, John, Bobby

**Warning:** swearing, cursing - Dean seems to have a knack for the f-word, tsk! (canonical) main character death(s)... kinda. It's complicated.

**Wordcount:** ~42k

**A/N:** Written for the bigbang 2010. The beautiful art was magicked by tanpopo03. Honey, you totally exceeded my exceptation by miles and miles *swoons*. Thank you *hugs*. I also want to thank gwendolynd for having done such an amazing beta job. All the remaining mistakes are totally mine. Also, I want to thank fickleanactoria who - at the beginning of all this - made some very valid points. She really had some nice insights and then... poof... she went missing *is sad*. Hope you are okay and thank you anyway.

**Summary:** In 1999 Sam dies on a hunt. It was an accident or at least that's what John and Dean keep telling themselves until eight years later a dying woman tells them to find him. To find Sam. What they find, though, isn't Sam but a young mother and her strangely familiar eight year old son who is the key to Azazel's defeat...and to Sam.

* * *

**~ Prologue ~**

_-  
In our darkest hours  
We have all asked for some  
Angel to come  
Sprinkle his dust all around  
But all our crying voices they can't turn it around  
You had some crazy conversations of your own._

The Shins - So says I  
_-_

**1999**

This was so wrong.

This was so mind-bogglingly wrong.

This was so wrong, Sam didn't even have eloquent words for it anymore and if there was one thing Sam always had, it was words. It was the only thing that belonged to him and no one could take it from him. The only tool he had to repair what went wrong in his life, so he used it whenever he got the chance. Excessively so, thank you very much.

Tonight, though, he had resigned to a common pout which he knew would have no affect at all except making John Winchester even angrier. But Sam didn't care. All he cared about was that Shana Miller - the one who was sitting next to him in his biology course, whose hair smelled like apple trees and summer breeze and who had the cutest crooked teeth - would wait for him today. She would be waiting a long time and he wouldn't show up and it was all his father's fault. She would probably call him tomorrow, angry and disappointed and she would have every right to be pissed because Sam hadn't shown up for his very first date in his life because of his father's idea of getting a simple hunt done on a Friday night. Who does that?

"There'll be more girls, hopefully many more," Dean had tried to console him with a knowing smile which turned out more dirty than sympathizing. That had not helped raising Sam's spirits. On the contrary. He liked Shana and even though he knew they would be leaving in a few weeks again, he didn't want to be remembered as the guy who didn't show up for a first date.

Sam hated hunting. He hated this life and he hated the fact that he had obviously no say in it. At all. No words on this planet could change that.

And most of all, he hated his father. A fact he had vocalized really, really loud right into his father's face. _"I hate you!"_

He had screamed with all the conviction his teenaged, aching heart could muster but his father had merely pursed his lips before leaving the shabby motel room, urging his sons on without needing to say a single word.

It was the last thing he had said to his father for a very, very long time. Of course, he hadn't known that then.

The silence was heavy in the car-grinding teeth and piercing looks and emotions running high.

It was official now. His father was ruining his life.

Sam hated his life.

Oh and he hated this particular forest, too.

An owl was hooting in the distance and twigs were snapping under his boots, loud as cannon shots. In front of him, Dean was quietly humming Metallica, having the time of his life. The beam of his flashlight was steadily aimed at the ground in front of him but the rest was lying in absolute darkness due to the full moon hidden behind thick blankets of clouds. It was an extremely inappropriate scenario for what they had come for. Usually their huntings were well planned and the time wisely chosen but according to John Winchester's assessment nine missing people, three found dead, eleven mutilated cows and one very frightened town was enough reason to act.

But couldn't this have waited until at least tomorrow when he didn't have a rendezvous to attend to?

It had been an exceptionally hot day and now the steady drizzle of summer rain was evaporating after barely hitting the damp forest floor, causing white wafts of mist to rise into the air like huge transparent worms in search of something to eat. A creepy thought and really, really disgusting. Sam pulled a grimace and hurried to catch up with Dean, whose flashlight was bathing the mist into a dirty twilight.

"Dean, wait!" He hissed and almost stumbled before regaining his balance.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean complained, his voice a deep growl. "Could you be any slower?"

"It's dark."

"That's what the flashlight is for, idiot."

So, now even his brother was angry with him, Sam realized and his heart sank even more, his throat constricting. He could deal with an angry father - he was actually used to it by now - but an angry Dean...? He swallowed the affronted retort that was lying on his tongue like a sweet pill turned sour and hung his head low to look where he was going. Dean was waiting and stared at him with a disapproving look that had such a similarity to his father's that Sam felt himself pale. If his brother was turning into a second John Winchester, Sam totally would jump in front of the next bus. But when he had finally reached Dean, a hand was patting his shoulder softly and Dean gave him a cheering smile. So no bus accident...yet.

"What time is it?" Sam asked and Dean fumbled with the sleeve of his jacket to look at his wrist watch.

"Ten to midnight," He answered after a short pause and looked back at Sam. "You ready?"

It wasn't Sam's first hunt. He'd gone hunting with his father and Dean for almost a year now and the feeling of excitement and curiosity had long given way to tired acceptance and frustration. So this is what he would be doing for the rest of his life? It felt wrong. And he wasn't even talking about Shana.

"Yeah," Sam answered, with little enthusiasm and Dean nodded, turned around and walked ahead, looking back a few steps to see if Sam was following.

"What? You need a written invitation or what? You know Dad relies on us."

_Yeah, of course he does_.

Their meeting point lay about half a mile north and they were supposed to meet there at midnight, sharp. Hunting an adze, a tiny goblin-like creature, wasn't their usual area of expertise, especially since Sam was convinced this particular creature hadn't hurt anyone-which was another point where Sam didn't exactly agree with his father's conclusion that the adze _was_ responsible. Sam had done his homework, in contrary to his father. At least the one that had nothing to do with Analysis and American History. And even though all evidence given by witnesses they had interviewed pointed at an adze, the number of missing and dead people and mutilated animals told Sam otherwise. This was not an adze. This was something else, something way more cold-blooded and calculating than a supernatural creature the size of a plush teddy bear. Something that was no adze.

Low bushes and knee-high branches rustled and Sam lifted his head and let his gaze roam. It was probably little animals looking for food or trying to find refuge from the rain in some moldy hole in the earth. Nothing else. Dean's steps were already fading and Sam hastened along, his adrenaline spiking and the hairs on his neck rising. His vivid imagination betraying his cool demeanor. He _was_ in dark forest after all.

"Dean, wait!" He yelled and felt childish for the fearful tone.

"You have legs, Sam. Use 'em," Dean hollered back at him. Then a loud noise shook the peace of nature's backyard when a shot rang out, coming from the direction they were heading to. Must have been their father's. Without waiting for Sam, Dean ran off, long legs flying over bushes, fallen trees and earth mounds whereas Sam's limbs flailed helplessly when he tried to mirror his brother's elegance.

The last growth spurt had caused his arm and legs to lengthen at an almost ridiculous rate. His body had lost all pudginess his brother had used to tease him with and replaced it with a gangliness that was source for new nicknames like beanpole and toothpick. Sam knew, there would always be something his brother would tease him about so he hadn't much hope of growing out of it other than knowing perfectly that he was just growing into something else his brother could make fun about. The light of his torch flew over the ground, mashing the plants in one dizzying mess under the soles of his shoes.

"Dean!" he yelled again, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping up. There, between the trees he could see the blurry outlines of Dean, fast as a bullet. Then he vanished and Sam forced his eyes to look at the point where he had last seen Dean.

"Fuck," he cursed vehemently, shining the light in a wide arch when he could hear small noises again, rustling and whizzing, hissing and screeching. Non-existent wind weaving its way through the undergrowth.

_Just awesome!_

"Dean!" His throat ached with the power of his scream but it was like the mist was surrounding him, coming closer and closer. Bony hands reaching out of the earth, clinging at his pants, clawing at his life. He halted for a second to catch his breath and used the second to observe his surroundings "Hello?"

This was how a little boy must feel when he was lost in a mall, Sam thought, sighing bitterly, and carefully walked on, aware of any sound that didn't belong here. He wasn't even sure what it was, exactly, that made his heart hammer in his chest and cold sweat break out on his forehead. A feeling of being watched, of being stalked, of being an easy prey. All alone in a big, dark forest. "Who's there?"

Footsteps, quite clearly now. Slow and measured as if that someone was sure Sam had nowhere to run to. "Dean? That's not funny!" It was a nice try, honestly, but Sam knew, this couldn't be his brother. Wouldn't be. Dean knew better than to play games on a hunt. Especially not after hearing their father shoot in the distance without knowing what was going on.

"Sammy, Sammy."

A voice - definitely not his brother's - came from somewhere to his right and Sam spun around to find a man standing a few feet away from him, casually leaning against a tree. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans and he wore a plaid fleece jacket. Maybe a ranger? Sam wondered. But how did he know his name? And what was he doing here in the middle of the night?

"Who are you?" Sam asked and his voice was surprisingly strong, not even a hint of his inner struggle to keep the panic under control.

The man sighed wearily, taking a step forwards which made Sam stumble one step backwards.

"Oh, we met. Don't you remember?" The stranger said conversationally, coming even closer. "Oh, of course you don't. I'm such a fool. Forgive me my mistake. You were only a baby and your mother was still very much alive, but..." He made a pause to let the words sink into Sam's brain like daggers into an old wound. "... you wouldn't know that of course. I mean your father doesn't tell you anything, now does he?"

A small laughter escaped his lips and Sam realized he had kept walking backwards, away from the stranger, his back now hitting against the slick, moss-covered bark of a lean tree, not thicker than his own arm. His fingers were gripping the handle of his flashlight, the plastic getting slick with sweat under his powerful grip and Sam's fleeting thoughts were making his head dizzy. His left hand felt along the surface of the tree, then the back of his jeans where he kept the small knife he had gotten from Dean for his birthday only weeks ago. It now felt like a gift from heaven even though he felt too lethargic to obey all of a sudden. His fingers tingled and he tried to take the knife but his body felt frozen, broken. The man was doing something to him. Something that made him freeze. How could he fight when he was frozen? How could he defend himself when his own muscles betrayed him?

"Oh, yes. Don't hesitate to use the knife on me. I was looking forward to a struggle, boy," The man sing-song-ed, not a worry in his voice, then snapped his fingers in a surprised manner. "Oh wait, you can't move."

Sam's eyes widened when a yellow glow appeared in the man's eyes, making his appearance not just scary but oddly familiar. Something tickled Sam's memories, just a bit.

"I'm almost sorry I have to do this, I am," The yellow-eyed man insisted and if Sam hadn't been so sure that he wouldn't stand a chance against him, he'd have believed him. There was a regret in those words, an almost sincere need to apologize that made Sam put on a confused face. He managed to take a small step aside, testing his way with his right foot but there was no ground. Quickly, Sam looked over his shoulder and panic rose fast enough to make his knee tremble with the sight of the dark abyss. He was standing on a rocky, uneven ground, his feet were sending small pebbles down the ragged edge. The other side was at least thirty feet away, a small grand canyon in the middle of a fucking no name forest.

"What do you want?" Sam wanted to know, aware of the fact that he needed time. Or distraction. Preferably both. "Why are you doing this?"

"You mean, why I am going to kill you?" Sam's breath got stuck in his throat. "Do you really want to know?" The man asked, coming closer, now only a few feet away.

_Do I?_ If Sam were honest, he didn't want to know. He didn't care why the man was doing this. He wanted to live. Wanted to help his brother and his father with that ridiculous adze which wasn't an adze at all. Then head home to have a good night's sleep and get angry with his father because he would have to face an angry Shana.

_Shana_, Sam thought. She would have to wait a little bit longer, now.

"Yes," Sam replied finally, his voice still strong and offensive. He needed time. "Yes, tell me!"

Information was everything. Before going into a hunt you needed information. Every information you could get, no matter how unimportant it seemed, had to be found and brought into a context. A pattern. Every hunt was a small project with its own structure. Like an architect who was never building the same house twice and always had to start with a sketch and a deep hole in the ground where the foundation would stand one day.

"Well, Sammy, let's just say, a little bird told me that sometime in the future, you will be a very naughty boy," He explained and Sam felt oddly like the little boy who had stolen candy. "And if I have the choice, either you or me, I choose me. You understand that, right? You're such a smart boy, after all. So smart and yet so narrow-minded." He sighed again and Sam dared to look behind the man, watching out for Dean or his father to come and save his sorry ass. Hoping. Praying.

"They won't come, Sammy. Not this time."

His hope bled away as fast as it had risen, his breath coming in short gasps. They had to hear the pounding of his heart. They just had to. Because he couldn't move. He couldn't move a finger and the yellow eyes bore into him, looked into his soul, his very core of being and he understood. All of sudden he understood everything and it hurt so much he felt dizzy with it. He knew that he was going to die. Here in this forest and this man had it all planned out like _he_ was the architect.

The man waved, just a casual wave with his hands, his head cocked slightly. And Sam could feel a force slam into him with the power of a steam train. His feet lost their ground and he fell. He fell and he fell and his last thought was that he didn't want his brother to find him. And that, really, he didn't hate his father after all.

-o-

Dean Winchester and his father searched the forest for hours. Two men, screaming their lungs out for the lost son. The lost brother. When they found him in the first light of the day, lying on the ground of the ditch, he was long gone.

* * *

The story is finished and will be updated regularly... as soon as I kind find a few spare minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. The usual.**

* * *

**~ Chapter 1 ~**

_-  
And the answer that you're seeking  
For the question that you found  
Drives you further to confusion  
As you lose your sense of ground_

Alexi Murdoch - Breathe

* * *

**April 13****th****, 2007 Clearwater, Kansas**

The storage depot in front of them was bathed in a silver hush from the moon light. The steel sparkling and blinking on every corner and if Dean hadn't known any better he could have sworn it was still in full use as the clothing manufacture it had been built for. But research and the obligatory interviews had confirmed that it had been closed three years ago after fourteen people had died in a killing spree of a former worker, who had been fired after stealing tools and a few layers of clothing. Ever since the building was standing empty, a few miles out of Clearwater.

John and Dean had gotten into town after Bobby's hint at numerous demonic signs. The usual. Strange weather phenomena and a few missing persons who could have easily taken the bus to start a new life in frigging New Mexico. They had found out about the fabric shortly after, yet after visiting it twice over the last three days they hadn't been able to find anything more suspicious than a falcon's nest under the tinny roof. So maybe no demons but the place sent out some strange vibes anyway. Since there were ghosts who tended to come out and play only in the dark they had decided to have a look at it at night. Or at least John did. Dean had found it remarkably strange that John was so interested in something as mundane as a 'maybe haunted' building in the outskirts of Clearwater, when they hadn't found any other signs of supernatural occurrences. But John usually moved in mysterious ways.

"See anything?" Dean asked, keeping his voice low and his attention sharp and shifted his body into a more comfortable position. Stakeouts in dark woods were so not his favourite. His body yearned to do something. To hit things, shoot things, kill things. Not sit and wait while branches were viciously poking in his back.

"Nothing," his father answered gruffly, unusually tense. "But I have a feeling..." He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air and Dean doubled his efforts to stay calm and concentrated on the matter at hand even though all he wanted was to jump in, get this over with-whatever _this_ was-and head back to town where there was a beer with his name on it waiting for him.

He grinned at the thought of having a beer named after him-just for a second. Then his full concentration was back on the case, his thoughts once more going through the details of this case. It was all a little fuzzy. No actual sightings, just rumours and some missing persons. This whole mission seemed rather useless even though there was something about this place. The isolated position, the dark corners, the hostile atmosphere. It was predestined to host supernatural beings, either ghost or corporal creatures and his father apparently felt it too.

"Looks clean. Let's get inside and have a look," John instructed. "Be careful!"

One last time John Winchester let his gaze sweep over the empty place in front of their hiding position before they walked towards the building, thereby staying close to the fence. The nondescript door opened with a screech and it echoed hollowly in the large hall where heavy imprints were visible where once large machines had loomed. John let the beam of the flashlight brighten every corner and they walked towards the middle of the room, side by side, always listening for movement, any sign of them being not alone. In some distant corner water was dripping steadily in a puddle, causing a fair _ping_, over and over. It was utterly annoying and Dean more and more got the impression that maybe they _had _hit something after all. Possibly some desolate lair of vampires or raw heads. He was okay with anything as long as he could pummel it to death and get to his beer. Plan of his life.

"Dad, I..."

"Sh..." John interrupted harshly and his face was so tense with listening that Dean almost laughed out loud. But he knew better and his father's tension seemed to be contagious.

Something _was_ here. Or should he say some_one_?

"Look what we got here?" An unfamiliar voice greeted the two men and the faint click of high heels on concrete rhythm-ed with the dripping water. "Scooby and Doo looking for snacks."

A young woman, early twenties. Shoulder-length, brownish hair. She wore worn jeans, an elegant looking vest over a long blouse and pointed leather shoes that completed the look of fashionable up-to-dateness.

John Winchester spun around, the nuzzle of his shotgun aimed at her and out of the corner of his eyes Dean could see the twitching eagerness of his father's index finger on the trigger. He'd shoot first, then ask questions.

Barely having computed the thought, the shotgun went off, ripping a large hole in the woman's vest but otherwise not doing anything at all.

"Tsk," she scolded. "John, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but you just might have taken the life of this good-looking secretary from Peoria." She pointed with both hands at herself. "Do you really think this is what the good guys are supposed to do?"

John didn't show any signs of recognition, remorse or anything remotely emotional when he answered. "I'd probably be doing her a favour, bitch."

Her eyes widened in a mock act of hurt. "Such bad words for a man of honour like you are."

Dean felt out of a place in this short interaction and had the impression he was missing something. Something important. John Winchester, though usually not a man of emotions, was even more cold-hearted in this moment. There wasn't even the slightest hint of surprise in his un-moving face and an uncomfortable uncertainty grew in Dean. Uncertain of their-_his_-role in this case.

"You shouldn't even be allowed to _use_ that word," John spat.

"Why? Because I'm a demon?" At these words, even in the darkness, Dean could see her eyes turn black for just a moment, then turn back to normal. "Look, we're just taking what's entitled for us. This body..." Again she pointed at herself. "... is a perfectly fine and comfortable meat suit but there's is something special about her, you know? She was _made _for us, after all. Created like a doll." She adjusted the collar of her blouse as if adjusting the body around her. "Because she is one of _them_."

There it was. John's jaw was twitching, a definite sign of his father's deep unease.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Johnny boy?" She started to walk in a circle around them, still twenty yards away but close enough to make Dean tense.

"Dad, what is she talking about?" He whispered, confused.

"Be quiet, son!"

She laughed, a happy sound. The person-_the human_-it belonged to must have laughed a lot because it sounded easy and clear. It once must have had and epidemic effect on people. A lovely personality, outgoing, happy... alive.

"Yes, be quiet, _son_," she mocked. "This concerns just your father, me and _Him_. Oh, and broken little Sammy, of course."

Dean's blood run cold and the sawed off shotgun filled with rock salt didn't only feel utterly useless but also much too heavy.

"Shut up, you bitch," John screamed, spit flying and hands shaking. Never before had Dean seen his father like this. At least not during a case. Of course, John Winchester got angry. A lot. And usually his rage was directed if not at Dean, then at someone else. But this? What the hell was going on here? Had his father known what they would find here? What did this have to do with Sammy? Why did he get the feeling that this was a trap?

They hadn't talked about Sam for years. Hadn't said his name out loud for years. Hadn't spoken about the accident either. Because that's what it had been; an _accident_ and a cruel joke of fate. And it was all Dean's fault. Not that he had said it out loud but John hadn't needed to. The way he hadn't looked in his son's eyes-the living one-had told Dean everything he needed to know.

Sam was dead and it was Dean's fault. He should have waited up on him. Should have made sure that his little brother was still behind him but all he had done in this moment was to take the fastest route to his father. For the first few weeks after he hadn't slept. The next few weeks he hadn't done anything but. And then came the nightmares in which he was running through a forest. Running and running and he knew he had to get somewhere but all the trees looked the same. He kept running in circles and he could hear gunshots and Sam's bitter voice, hissing, "_You didn't push me but you didn't catch me either, Dean. How can you live with that when I can't?_"

He hadn't thought of these dreams for a while now, had kept them stashed away in some dark corner of his being in which he had stuffed everything that had to do with his brother. Everything that could hurt him just by thinking of it. But in this moment, standing in that goddamn factory, it all crashed into him.

"Oh, didn't you know, Dean? Ah, yes. My mistake. This is John "I'm not telling" Winchester," She said, using a childish sing-song voice. She hadn't stopped walking. Her step was easy and relaxed, almost dancing. Her knees bent slightly with every step she took and her high heels didn't seem to hinder her steady walk. "You know, it was me-or at least my meat suit-who's responsible for this mess. My gift." She shrugged her shoulder and made an innocent gesture with her elbows tucked closely to her torso, the palms of her hand aimed upwards. "Pity though. Sammy...?" She sighed, as if remembering something wonderful. "He would have made a wonderful _us_. He wasn't just _special_. He was _His_ masterpiece, you know? _His _pride of creation. And it broke His heart too when He found out that little Sammy had chosen his own path."

"He didn't choose anything," John gnarled between clenched teeth. "He was just a kid."

"Not _yet_, you mean. He hadn't chosen anything _yet_. And come on, admit it. You knew about the choices your son would have had to make if he hadn't died? It was his destiny after all."

Dean's thoughts were running amok in his head. This was bizarre. This was surreal. This was _not true_. Sam's death had been an accident. Nothing but a fucking stupid accident. Of course, sometimes he wondered why the earth was still turning and the sun still shining but this had still been an _accident_. And that's what he said next with absolute confidence.

"It was an accident."

"An accident, you say?" She stopped, tipping her hand against her chin. "So the boy, who would have killed Azazel one day, died in an accident. How convenient." She made an exaggeratedly surprised face. "Now that's what I'd call irony."

"What are you talking about?" John asked even though his demeanor didn't look like he wanted to hear anything from her. Dean adjusted the weapon in his hand and took a quick peek at his father. From the outside, his father's face seemed to be chiseled in stone. Only the dangerous flashes in his eyes indicated his inner turmoil.

"My, we are a little slow on the uptake, are we?" She glanced at her nails. _At her nails for fucks sake!_ "He was a threat. Threat eliminated. It's simple. Like math. The simplest equation in the universe. Plus and minus. Yin and Yang. Life and death."

"Why? Why Sam?" John's voice was cracking and Dean's heart was breaking. Not even after Sam's death had he sounded that pained. Now, eight years later, all the pain seemed to bubble to the surface just because some demon bitch was taunting him with facts that could easily be made up to draw him out. To drive him closer to the edge of insanity.

Grief usually wanders an a thin line and in John Winchester's case there was also a strong wind blowing, pulling him from one side to the other. Rage and anger versus apathy and despair.

"Aren't you listening?" She yelled, temper rising. "You're starting to bore me, John." With that, she waved her hand in their direction and they flew through the air, limbs flailing, until the rusty walls in their backs stopped them. The back of his head had collided strongly with the hard surface and he blinked once-twice. Something was immobilizing them, some weird demon mojo. Even though Dean was still holding his gun in his hands he couldn't move his arm to aim the weapon in her direction. Which, of course, wouldn't make much of a difference anyway as the bullet hole in her chest implied. Think, he had to think. They had to distract her. There had to be...

"Be ready, Dean," He heard his father mumble and already wanted to retort 'Ready for what?' when the invisible power suddenly let go and he dropped immediately, catching his fall with a role forward and was back on his feet simultaneously with his father.

"What did you do?" The demon wanted to know and for a second or two Dean didn't have the slightest clue what she was talking about, until she took a step towards them only to run into an invisible barrier. "No!"

John smiled coldly, sending a shiver down Dean's back and a prayer towards heaven that it this kind of smile would never be directed at him. "I like it when I'm being underestimated," John said, now back to his usual calm. "Makes the big entrance so much bigger, doesn't it?"

"When did you put up a devils trap?" Dean asked, still reeling from the quick turn of events.

"Yesterday. Painted with holy oil."

"You could have told me, you know," Dean fumed even though he knew this was neither the time nor the place to get all huffy. And as expected, his father ignored him and stepped closer to the barrier where the woman was caught like a large insect.

"You tell me where I can find that son of a bitch and I'll let you go."

"You wouldn't let me go."

John shrugged. "You're right, I wouldn't."

"Then why should I tell you anything?"

"Because..." He begun and turned towards Dean, pointing to his backpack which Dean took as a hint to go grab it. Rummaging around in it he came up seconds later with his father's journal, which had been bookmarked with an old photograph. A photograph of John and Dean and Sam sitting on the hood of the Impala.

Dean gulped and put the image aside, taking a look at the Latin text which he immediately recognized as an exorcism.

"Read!" John ordered and the woman was glancing between the two men, torn between a badly acted amusement and real horror. She hissed, her lips parting in a scowl which made her pretty face ugly, grotesque even.

Pronouncing the words clear and loud Dean began to speak the incantation which he knew by heart but the written letters made it more powerful. He had barely ended the first paragraph when she showed first signs of painful indisposition. Groaning, she walked inside the circle, no more than 10 feet in diameter looking like a caged tiger.

"Talk!" John bellowed Dean almost cringed from the authoritative voice.

She pulled a grimace, her face contorting in an attempt to scream out her fury. "I wouldn't even if I knew. You know that John. _He_ has so much more punishment to give than you can ever imagine."

"Did he kill my son?" John asked, this time in a low, predatory voice. Sharp enough to cut through Dean's professionalism and make his knees weak when only half an hour ago he had looked forwards to a beer and the cute barkeeper.

The question rose into the air like an inflatable balloon, filling out the entire space and taking Dean's breath away. How could this situation turn so fast? How could this evening all of a sudden be about Sam's death?

"Read on!" John urged and Dean's eyes went back to the journal in his hands, the letters starting to blur. He stumbled over the words, one by one, pressing them out of his mouth like lies he didn't want to tell.

She screamed and John screamed and it was so loud Dean wanted to put his hands over his ears but they were busy gripping the edges of the journal, knuckles white and stiff.

"DID HE KILL MY SON?" John yelled and there was sweat on his face. Sweat or tears, Dean didn't want to know.

"Yes!" She screamed ferociously and with this answer something else escaped from between her lips. A black cloud, wriggling its way to freedom. For a moment it lingered in front of her, surrounding her, before it trickled down only to vanish in a large crack in the floor like sand through a hourglass.

She stood there for a moment, then faltered and fell... right into the open arms of John Winchester. With a care that Dean had never seen before in his father's demeanor he guided her to the floor, carefully holding her head so she wouldn't bump against the cold concrete. Her brown eyes were open, her mouth forming a surprised 'o' but against all reason-she was alive. She blinked confused then took a deep breath only to cringe with pain. The hole in her chest started bleeding. Slowly at first, then faster until a fountain of red pulsated with her waning heartbeat.

"I'm..." she croaked. "I'm sorry," She whispered and licked her dry lips.

"Dean. Water!" John ordered sharply and Dean got one of the flasks with holy water. John let some drops of liquid trickle into her mouth and her eyes, now warm and empathetic, showed gratitude.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled on. "It was me. I told him... about Sam. He would... He did terrible things..." The words came out fast and jumbled. Like she wanted to get them out before she died. "Had a vision... but..." Collecting her breath, she thought for a moment before speaking again. "He killed Sam first..." At that, she searched for Dean's eyes and looked into them for a long and painful moment. "You've got to find him." Barely a whisper now it was hard to understand her and Dean leaned down to hold his ear against her bloody lips. "Find Sam!"

"Sam is dead!" John protested weakly, getting back up and taking a unstable step backwards, distancing himself from her dying body while Dean's hand lay on her shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Find destiny, find Sam!" She exhaled her last breath and another wouldn't come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Not even one of them. Except mabye Dee.

* * *

**~ Chapter 2 ~**

_-  
If you're missing I will run away,  
I will build a path to you.  
If you're missing I will run away,  
because I find myself in you._

Something Corporate - Runaway_  
-_

_

* * *

_

**April 13****th****, Palo Alto, Cindy's Diner**

The diner was bustling with people. Students, most of them. Some men in expensive suits sat in a far corner, gossiping loudly about an arranged contract. The little bell was busy ringing every few seconds. The whole diner was alive. A living organism. People were rushing by like planets in an orbit and her little boy was one of the outer moons, small and inconspicuous but steady. His sight was familiar from where she was standing. Every day after school he came in and sat on the stool on the far end of the counter, unpacked his stuff and did his homework until her shift was over and they could go home together. A ritual as constant as the rise and fall of the sun.

His unruly mob of hair was hanging low over his ever present notebook and he was unaware of her staring at him.

She did this a lot; stare at her son. As if - even now after eight years - she couldn't believe the luck she had with this little boy. She had been seventeen when she got pregnant; her former boyfriend had been twenty. Emphasis on _former_. He had left her after he found out she was pregnant and when she thought about this these days, she was glad about how things turned out because sharing the love she felt for Matt was unthinkable.

The very first time she had him in her arms she looked into his eyes, still a bright blue as most baby eyes were and had known (_known_) what name she'd have to give him, because it was right and appropriate. Because it wasn't just his name, it was a fact. Matthew, Gift of God.

So, now she was a single, twenty-six year old Mom with a little boy who meant the world to her.

"Eat your ice cream, Matt. It's starting to melt."

"I like it like that," The boy answered without lifting his head from his notebook.

She rolled her eyes but her lips were smiling. "You're one strange little boy, you know that, Matty?" She said playfully and it sounded like a phrase she used by habit.

"I know," he replied, matter-of-factly, his little fingers still holding his pen tightly, as if it wanted to flee from his grip if he let go.

"Mom?" Matt looked up from his notebook, put his pencil aside and tilted his head.

"Yeah honey?" She kept cleaning the glass in her hand, put it aside and took the next one.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" He asked, his little forehead scrunched up in stern concentration.

"Uh...no," she answered after a moment of surprise. "No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

"Just because."

She was used to his strange questions. Random questions about things little boys shouldn't be thinking about. Albeit, thinking about ghosts was probably one of the more common questions a little boy could think about.

His questions usually came out of the blue like that. Sharp and unexpected. Randomly. And she was pretty sure they meant something for Matt. A special meaning that only he could understand. Like they were The Answers to His Universe in which only he got the whole point. Most of these questions were terrifyingly intelligent and incisive. Speckled with significance that would have made theology and philosophy teachers clap their hands in utter delight.

Matt was a shy little boy. He always said please and thank and, honestly, she was pretty sure she hadn't taught him that. He could read before pre-school even though she had never read him a single book. He knew stuff she had had to google for and sometimes she felt scared. Not of him but for him. Scared of what his knowledge would cost him and his childhood. Sometimes, she looked into his eyes and was sure there was someone else staring back at her. Someone with more than eight years on this planet.

She was woken out of her trance by a customer and apologized quickly before getting the young man his coffee-black, with one sugar.

Her shift would end in fifteen minutes and she was looking forward to some quality time with Matt and her roommate Jess. Quality time usually implied a Disney movie, popcorn and the fact that they never got to finish the movie because Matt fell asleep even before Ariel met her future husband. But since it gave her time to chat with Jess and learn the newest gossip on the world and his wife, she didn't mind. She didn't mind at all and once in a while she got the impression that Matt fell asleep on purpose just to give her time for herself.

"You want me to help you with your homework?" She asked and put the towel aside, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked around to see whether any more guests were in immediate need of her assistance, then came to where he sat and leaned on her elbows, her face only inches away from his.

"Nope, I don't have any homework today." He huffed slightly, as if it was a personal insult not to have any homework to do.

"No homework? Then what are you writing in your book?"

The butt of his pencil wandered to his lips and he chewed on it, thoughtfully. "I'm not writing."

"Then what are you doing?" She leaned closer and tried to get a look at the page he was doodling on. It was upside down but she could see the crude sketch of a face with spiky hair, big eyes and a wide smile. A necklace with a small pendant hung around the figures neck.

"Who is this?" She asked and Matt shrugged his shoulder.

"I don't know. No one."

For a "no one" the figure had some pretty expressive features and Matt's unconcern sent goosebumps over her skin.

"So, no one, huh? What's he got around his neck?" Her short clipped fingernail pointed on the blotch of ink that marked the pendant.

"I don't know. I can't make it out clearly." Another unworried shoulder raise and he turned the page to start over on a blank on. His pencil seemingly aimless drawing random signs on the white surface.

"What do you mean?" She asked. "When did you see him?"

"I don't remember. Can we go home now?" He closed his book before she could take another look and his eyes shone happily all of a sudden. She knew it wouldn't help to question him further about the man. Matt was a pro when it came to distraction tactics and his puppy dog eyes were irresistible. He just knew which buttons to push when it came to her.

"Uhm, sure. Give me five minutes, okay?" He just smiled and nodded, looking like the eight year old he was supposed to be.

She went back into the kitchen, nodding at her colleague on her way to her locker to change.

Her son already waited for her near the door, his schoolbag flung over one shoulder and one eye constantly on the entrance as if expecting someone.

"Who are you waiting for?" She asked and took the schoolbag.

"No one."

"The same no one as before?" She asked only half in joke.

"Nooo," He giggled and pushed the glass doors open. "I can't wait for no one. That doesn't make sense, mom."

"Yeah, and you know about things that make sense, right Einstein?"

"I do."

They stepped outside. The day was warm and friendly for a day in the middle of April and Jess was already waiting for them in front of the diner, a brown bag of grocery supplies in one arm.

"Hey, you two," Jess greeted them, giving her a one-armed hug then ruffling Matt's hair at which he made a grimace and tried to flatten them back against his head. It was useless. His hair had a will of its own. "Ready to spend the day with two old ladies?" Jess laughed and Matt grinned.

"You're not old."

"Always the gentleman, aren't you?" Jess said and they started to walk the two blocks to their apartment while Matt bounced between them, jumping up and down on his legs like a grasshopper.

"Did you get salt?" He wanted to know and tried to peek into the grocery bag.

"Salt?" Jess asked, looking at her friend questioningly.

"Don't ask." His mom rolled her eyes, amused. "It's his newest idea." Even though she didn't actually make the gesture one could hear the quotation marks surrounding the word idea.

"It's not an idea," Matt defended himself with a pout. "Salt is important."

"Sure. It's an important mineral and your body needs it but only in moderation, you know?" Jess explained but Matt shook his head in disgust.

"I don't want to eat it," He declared in a convincing tone. "I want to put it on the windows."

"What for?" Jess asked nonplussed while the young mother had to hide her grin behind a cough.

"It's safer."

"Safer? Safe from what?" Jess wanted to know, her eyebrows arched.

"I don't know. Bad people," Matt said and they rounded the next corner, their apartment house now in sight.

His mother's hand gripped his a little tighter and she stopped, leaning down to her son to look him straight into the eyes. "Matt, who told you this?"

"No one."

"For someone who is no one, that no one does have a lot to say, Matt." Her insides were squirming, a cold foreboding gripping her and she had no idea where it came from. Sure, her son did have a vivid imagination and a strange talent of acceptance when it came to the hardest truths in the world. He accepted things as they came, never questioning their existence and sometimes she felt scared by his lack of surprise. He never questioned facts as if he had expected them to come true right from the beginning. He seemed to know stuff. Stuff, that even she struggled to understand. But he just took it as it came without the blink of an eye. As if he either didn't care or had known all along. Sometimes she was afraid he was incapable of feelings but then, when he smiled at her with bright eyes, dimpled cheeks and a trust that took her breath away she knew, he was bubbling with feelings just under the surface. A tornado of happiness and sadness and hopes and dreams in such a little person. And something else. A longing for something he hadn't found yet. He was waiting for something special to happen.

The image of the sketchy figure came back in her mind while she rummaged around in her purse to find the key. Quickly, she opened the door, holding it for Jess who entered but Matt was still standing on the stairs, his back turned towards her, staring in concentration across the street where someone was staring back. A young man, probably a student who, from the distance, had the darkest eyes she had ever seen. He blinked and the impression was gone. Just a random guy across the street with his hands in his jeans pockets, who was passing by on his way...somewhere.

"Matt?"

He didn't react for a second, then bolted inside, breathing heavily and she followed him, carefully making sure the door was locked behind her. Twice.

-o-

**Two weeks later**

"You gonna be abducted by little grey men if you sit out here any longer," a grumpy voice said behind him but Dean didn't turn. He knew Bobby had been standing in the doorway for a while now. Twirling the spoon in his coffee and scratching against the porcelain wall over and over even though he never put sugar or milk in it. A waste of a perfectly clean spoon, Dean thought. Now, he could feel his old friend's gaze on his back like laser beams, burning into his flesh. "You okay, boy? Haven't seen ya all day."

Bobby stepped closer, leaning against the waist-high railing that went around the veranda of his house.

"Been busy," Dean answered.

"Sure. Busy sitting on your lazy ass."

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked and couldn't avoid the bitter note in these words, laced with accusation and resentment. And anger. Anger was a steady companion now. Anger, disappointment and something that hurt too much to be called hope.

Sam was dead. It was a fact hard to forget and Dean had seen his brother's broken body. The twisted limbs. The blood. The deadness. Not a demon in this world could change that. But there was one demon who was responsible for that and that had been a hard truth to learn. It had knocked Dean off his feet, metaphorically as well as physically and he hadn't been able to talk to his father since then. Not for a lack of trying of course but either his father was too drunk to answer or not drunk enough. He had gotten nothing out of his dad except some creative cursing and heartfelt pleading. In his long line of doing what they did, Dean had never seen his father so lost. Not even after Sam's death.

Sam's death had been a new parameter put into the equation of their life, yet-somehow-John had managed to solve it. At least for himself. It had taken him a while and countless bottles of Whiskey but he had gotten back up. Had crawled back to his feet, unsteady as if he was learning to walk anew. And just like that he had started from the scratch. Had decided to leave the past behind and look into another future. It felt heartless to think about it like that, as if he was putting Sam in a box in the basement like a disused piece of furniture fit for nothing anymore, but it had helped keeping him sane when all he did was lose things (_his wife - his son_ - _his sanity_) that meant the world to him.

_"I will not let them get me. Not like this!"_ John had announced a few months after 'The Day'. And so, he had just gotten up and had taken Dean with him. As simple as that.

Oh yes, denying was easy. Forgetting-though-was a bitch.

Dean was a pro with the denying but the forgetting was impossible. He couldn't forget the look of his father in that factory, had sensed his father's despair, his sorrow and the guilt. If guilt was wall paint, you could have painted the Eiffel tower with it. Twice. And the paint hadn't dried yet.

"I ain't his watchdog," Bobby complained but when Dean looked up at him, eyebrows raised, he answered, "Back in town. Getting supplies ready before you two leave."

Dean smirked. "Watchdog."

"Watch that mouth, son," Bobby said not without affection.

The evening was settling around them. The fading daylight darkened the mazy aisles of Bobby's junkyard in deep shadows and in the east the sky was turning into the color of blue satin. The air was biting cold. Or maybe it was just Dean. A shower of goosebumps rushed over his skin, making him shiver for a moment before he looked up towards the sky, wishing for answers to fall down like a light summer rain.

"Stop beating yourself up."

Bobby had always known Dean much better than even his father had, Dean thought bitterly. Then snorted. "Why?"

"Because this is stupid. Talk to your father!"

"He doesn't want to talk to me. He wants to..."

"Forget?" Bobby interrupted.

"No, I actually wanted to say do this on his own."

"Do what?"

Dean sighed and shook his head. "Actually, I have no idea. It's like I don't know him anymore."

"He's still your father." Bobby took the first sip of his coffee and pulled a grimace. "That coffee is a concoction of hell. Your father is going to kill himself with a heart attack one day. Me too, by the way." Dean ignored the comment, feeling his anger rise again.

"Why won't he talk to me?" He yelled and his voice bounced back from the walls of discarded metal and junk.

They retreated into a tense silence while the sun was slowly vanishing behind the treetops, bathing the veranda in a chilly twilight.

"Bobby?" Dean asked and waited for Bobby's growl before going on. "How did you know where to send us? The factory I mean?"

Bobby took a few moments to think about his answer or maybe he was just trying to remember. Probably a little bit of both.

"I didn't know about the factory. Just knew about demonic activities. Electrical storms, high atmospheric pressure and the lot."

"So Dad knew that we'd find demons?"

"He knew about the demonic activities but I doubt he knew what awaited you there. Not exactly."

"He didn't seem surprised."

Bobby snorted, amused. "Surprise? I highly doubt surprise is an integral element of your father's personality."

"I know my father. He wasn't surprised."

"So, now all of a sudden you do know your father again?"

_Touché_.

"You know what I mean, Bobby."

The older man sighed barely audible. It was nerve-wrecking. The thinking and calculating. The endless _what if's_.

"What if..."

"Don't go there, Dean," Bobby said sharply but with a distinct note of pain, both for himself and Dean. "Sam is dead. He's _dead_. And he won't come back."

"Don't you think I know that?" Dean countered, angrily. "I was the one who found him. I was there when we burned him on the fucking pyre. I am the one..." He stopped and Bobby knew what he had wanted say. Could almost hear it just from the way Dean's face darkened. Like the letters were still hanging in the air without finding their way into Dean's vocabulary. _Responsible_. But he let it go, knowing well that no words could take away the guilt. Never. "But she told us to find him."

"She was a demon. Demon's lie." It was a useless phrase. One that Dean knew already and had considered it countless times. He had even made a fucking pro and contra list and damn, the contra list was longer than his own arm. Shaking his head, Dean finally got up and started walking up and down in front of Bobby's porch. "She wasn't a demon anymore. She was human when she died. And she said..."

"I know what she said, Dean. It's not like you told me about thirty-six times already. I _know_."

"I won't stop looking."

"Looking for what?" The question made Dean's shoulder sag a little and his stride slowed. What was he looking for? Sam? No, impossible. Sam's body was gone, his ashes scattered on a sun filled clearing in Kansas. He was the one who turned the urn to let the remains of his little brother spray in the wind, a gray cloud of all that remained of Sam. That and the painful memories.

"Dad never stopped looking."

"Your father never stepped looking for your mother's _murderer_. There's a difference."

Dean stood still, his head hanging low with his chin against his chest. "Maybe. But it can't hurt to look for him even if it's his murderer I find."

Bobby didn't answer and Dean knew he had said everything worth saying. Without another word he went back into the house leaving Bobby behind with a cold coffee and an even colder dread.

-o-

It was way past midnight when Dean heard the wheels of the Impala crunching on the dirty gravel in front of Bobby's house. Quietly, he stayed sitting on the chair in the kitchen, nursing the half-empty cup of icy coffee between his hands and staring into the darkness. Deliberately he had switched off the light but the moon was full enough to brighten the inside of the room with a silver glow.

Bobby was long asleep but Dean hadn't found the peace to lie down and close his eyes, afraid the nightmares would come back after the uncomfortable talk with Bobby. He didn't feel ready to put those feelings of betrayal behind that stirred his anger towards his father more and more until he felt like he had to hit something. Or someone. That someone's boots were now making creaking sounds on the wooden veranda and seconds later the light was switched on, presenting John Winchester standing in the door. The older man quickly hid his surprise of finding his son sitting in a dark room behind a muttered greeting and put down a heavy bag on the table.

"Since you're awake you can help me get the stuff out of the car." It wasn't a question but an order. Everything John articulated was an order, one way or another. Without waiting for confirmation John went outside again and Dean put down the cup with more force than appropriate. Now was the time. He'd have to confront his father, here and now, no matter how strongly his father would revolt against Dean's little rebellion. He needed answers and he needed them _now_. Long enough he had pranced around his father's mood swings, hoping for a crumb of information, of answers that would never come if he didn't take it in his own hands. Dean stood up and followed his father outside.

The backseat was packed with two large bags and Dean knew what he would find. Ammunition, knives, weapons, bottles of freshly blessed holy water and cleaning oils. The car smelled metallic even when Dean was still a few feet away and he stopped, standing motionless and mirroring his father's stance.

"We're going to San Francisco. Tomorrow," John announced, his tone seeming to challenge his son to object.

"Why?" Dean replied and John wasn't surprised.

"Demonic activities." Which was more information than Dean usually got. In a normal hunt, his father would say _'Get in the car. We're leaving,_' and Dean would follow without questions. This new development was encouraging, Dean decided.

"How do you know?"

"Missouri."

Okay, slowly but surely his father's willingness to come up with facts was creeping Dean out.

"Missouri?"

"Is there an echo?" His father blurted out, not giving any signs of wanting to change the subject.

Quickly, Dean apologized "No, sorry. Sir. I was just wondering..."

"Why I'm telling you this?"

_This must be apocalyptic,_ Dean thought, astonished by how strange it felt trying to talk to his father. Like he had a stranger in front of him after all.

"Christo!" He said, not really expecting the amused snort of his father.

"I guess, I deserved that," John replied, his face in the dark and Dean was more confused than ever.

"How come you want to talk all of a sudden?"

"I'm not talking." John's voice sounded muffled when he bent down to grab one bag and one neatly wrapped up package from the backseat. "I'm responding."

Fine, two could play that game. "So, if you're responding, respond to why did Sammy have to die?"

It was a low blow and Dean knew it but the time of fooling around with unsaid answers and pointless questions was over. Dean wanted answers and he wanted them now. The nightly temperature seemed to drop a few more grades and for a second Dean wondered if he indeed had gambled away his chance by being too bold. For a moment, John kept silent, unmoving, and Dean could hear his father's teeth grind even at the distance.

"I don't know," He finally answered after a long pause.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

John snorted. "Yes."

"Dad!" Dean yelled. "I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being you and your ego's fucking third wheel."

"Dean!" John replied sharp. "I don't want to hear that tone, you hear me?"

Since John hadn't yet exploded, Dean managed to take a deep a breath himself and did his best to calm down.

"Sorry, Sir."

"Let's get inside. I want this conversation to be in private," John said and looked around suspiciously. And in their line of work, the walls _did_ have ears once in a while.

Five minutes later a fresh pot of coffee was brewing and its strong smell filled the kitchen. Bobby, who had probably been woken by their loud voices in the front yard, came slurping from his bedroom, wrapped in a battered bath robe and a cap on his head.

"Do you actually sleep with that thing?" Dean wondered and was answered by a gruff 'Shut up'.

The older man sat down heavily, glancing between John and Dean. "What's with the midnight meeting?"

John's face darkened, obviously not happy with Bobby being present and Dean looked at their host apologetically.

"This is my kitchen you're sitting in." Bobby pointed at the coffee, his eyes narrowed. "And my coffee you're drinking."

Dean understood and got up to get him a cup.

"Fine. Whatever!" John barked and sat down with his own coffee.

"So, care to tell me what's going on?" Bobby coerced impatiently. "What held you up in town?"

John looked up, his face shining with conflicting emotions like a TV screen zapping channels.

"Got a call from Missouri," He grumbled. "She informed me about demonic activities down in San Francisco."

Dean knew that already and was sure John was doing that on purpose. Delaying his information. He was a sneaky bastard by the genes. Blurting out a truth, no matter which one, must be painful.

"Yeah, and this why you got your tail between your legs," Bobby snorted sarcastically and Dean was surprised his father did not jump over the table to beat their friend into a bloody pulp. "Lemme guess, she kicked your ass for something. That's her specialty." Sounded like he had experience.

"Proverbially speaking," John admitted, his anger still close to the surface. "About..." His voice faltered and he cleared his throat before speaking on. "I'm getting the close to the yellow eyed SOB."

"What about Sam?" Dean tensed in his chair, daring not to breathe out of fear it would anger his father.

"Nothing!" John said, his voice painfully empty. "This has got nothing to do with Sam, understood? This is about that SOB who killed your mother."

"And _Sam_!" Dean encountered, indignantly. "He killed Sam, too. Remember?"

John remained silent, evidence enough that Dean had the point.

"Why the secret keeping, Dad? Why did he kill Sam?"

"Demons lie. Sam's death was an accident," the older Winchester bellowed, getting up fast and pushing the chair away from his place.

Dean huffed, not even remotely impressed by John's bad acting. "That's bullshit, Dad, and you know that!"

"John," Bobby interrupted, addressing John but looking at Dean. "As far-fetched as this sounds, Dean might have a point here. It don't necessarily have to do anything with Sam, though." His gaze turned apologetic.

"You got nothing to say in that, Singer."

"So, but I'm good enough to provide coffee, food and a roof over your heads?" Bobby said hotly but calmed down quickly. "You are a hardheaded bastard and I can deal with that. I don't know it any differently. But what I can't deal with is that I offer help and you deny me. I didn't know Mary, but I very well knew Sam. And I loved him too." John already opened his mouth to retort something he'd regret later but Bobby went on. "This is not your personal vendetta, John Winchester. This is war and it concerns all of us, not just your personal desire for revenge. So stick your ego where the sun don't shine and stop being such an idjit!"

A tennis match was nothing against the heated argument going on between the two men and Dean almost thought they had forgotten about him. Both men looked at him in surprise when he jumped in. "What else did Missouri say?"

His father blinked once, twice. Then swallowed. His next words sounded odd, hollow and Dean was pretty sure he hadn't meant to give this information away, at all. "Find destiny, find Sam."

Heavy silence rained down on them.

"She said that?" Bobby asked, his eyebrows almost vanishing under his cap. "What else?"

John shook his head. "Nothing more. She told me about demonic activities in LA, then she said... that. The line went dead. I couldn't get her on the phone ever since."

For weeks Dean had waited for his hopes to either die or be fulfilled like some fairytale wish but nothing had happened but an increase of painful frustration caused by the renewed fruitless attempts to come to terms with his brother's death almost nine years ago. And now this? He was sick of his emotions getting all roller-coaster on him. He wanted peace... or his brother. But neither was possible, not as long as he was breathing with his memories intact. So he'd just have to stick to the original plan. Hunting things, killing evil, family business and...

"...finding Sam..." He muttered under his breath, his father's eyes met his and both knew, they would either avenge their loved one's murder or die trying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: The usual. Not mine except for Dee. Also, feedback is love... just saying :-)

* * *

**~ Chapter 3 ~**

_-  
Where's the truth  
For us to use  
Cause all we seem to do is lose  
Who we are and how we've tried  
Are we all the same inside  
It's now or never to decide_

Three Days Grace - Now or Never  
_-_

* * *

**April 27****th****, Palo Alto**

As long as he could remember, this had been his room.

The blue curtains with the yellow moons and twinkling stars. The neat row of stuffed animals sitting in the small crack between wall and bed. The lamp hanging from the ceiling in form of a flying saucer from which bouncing figures were hanging from. When he entered the room, it felt right to be there. As if it was waiting for him after a day at school like a loyal friend, a little puppy greeting him at the door. But as much as he enjoyed it, he felt like it wasn't meant for him and he was just waiting for the day when he would have to pack his bags and leave and never come back.

Matt was only eight years old but there were times when he wondered how often he had left dear places without remembering it.

Sometimes he felt like his existence had a spirit of its own. Another mind, hidden in his own. Like his life was a huge ocean and his eight year old self was standing at the shore, knowing that there was so much more water beyond the visible horizon. More water and more memories like the countless fishes in the sea. Undiscovered sea monsters and giant krakens. It was a thought that used to make him feel vulnerable and afraid. Experience had taught him, that these kind of thoughts were uncommon for his age and whenever he had dared to address his fears, his mother looked at him strangely. Amused, bemused and horrified, all in one. He always feared her face might fall of with all those contradicting emotions running over it. But then, the look would fade and be replaced by an expression of utter affection. She would kiss the top of his head and tell him to "Go play! Be a kid!" And he would laugh and giggle and tell her that he _was_ a kid. Then, his mother would tell him that he was a _weird_ kid. She would laugh about it and he would laugh because that's what eight year old boys do.

But deep down inside, so deep that he couldn't actually put it in words, he knew he was different.

It was late, nearly midnight, and he stood motionless in front of the window, staring outside. His eyes never leaving the corner of the house across from theirs, where a man was standing, staring up at him. Never even blinking in the harsh light of the street lamp.

The door to his room squeaked when his mother entered but still he didn't take his eyes off the watcher.

"Honey?" She sounded surprised and stood next to him, patting the top of his head. "What are you doing up? It's long past your bedtime."

"Can't sleep," He lied, his eyes still fixed on the stranger. For more than an hour Matt hadn't moved, his feet were aching and his heart was beating rapidly in his small chest. Carefully he reached out his hand to make sure the salt was still there where he put it.

"You put salt on the windows? Again?" She asked, not surprised. Only tired.

"Yeah. Sorry mom."

"It's okay. We'll clean it up tomorrow, okay? But you should sleep now."

With one last look at the stranger he let himself be guided back towards his bed. His beloved teddy bear was sitting on his pillow and he took it before he crawled under the covers his mom was holding up for him.

"Mom?"

She waited until his head hit the pillow, the stuffed bear pressed against his chest, before she pulled the blankets up.

"Yes, kiddo?" The nickname gave his heart a small pang and he pressed himself deeper into the pillow, wanted to make himself as small as possible.

"Can I have a dog?"

His mother chuckled. "It's midnight and you ask me for a dog?"

"What's got midnight to do with the dog?"

"Nothing. You just never asked for a pet." She shook her head, smiling. "Why do you want a dog all of a sudden?"

"I don't know." He pouted and shrugged. "He can bark."

"Sure he can bark. It's a dog. But why do you want him?" She reached to his bedside table and turned off the little rocket lamp with the thick blobs of red wax gliding up and down in the tube. The only light now came from the hallway and the distant, dirty yellow of the lamps on the streets.

"I don't know. I just want one." _It's what little kids want._

"We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?" She pushed away a curl from his forehead before kissing it softly. "Good night."

With that she got up, tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Matt's eyes were heavy and itchy and he really wished he could just close them but...he just couldn't. Quickly, he kicked the blankets away. The carpet was chilly and scratchy under his feet after the warm, soft linen in his bed and carefully trying not to produce any sound he opened the drawer of his night stand, groping for the small flash light he kept hidden under his edition of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. It was a nightly ritual which he had started a few years ago, after he'd had his first nightmare. The first of many. He could remember the dream in every detail. Could remember the foul smell of the creature when it opened its mouth to suck out his life. Could feel its bony fingers against his skin. It had been a dream, just a dream, but since that dream he took a look into his closet every night before he went to sleep. Just to make sure. Because he doubted someone would come and rescue him. Not even the man in his dreams. The one with the piercing green eyes and the spikey hair and the pendant around his neck. He wouldn't be there. Not in time.

Just like every night, he let the round puddle of light crawl over his clothes. He pulled his jackets aside, illuminated every corner, then closed the closet when he was satisfied nothing was there. On his way back into bed, he passed the window, risking a quick glance at the opposite sidewalk. The stranger was gone, which did nothing to quell his anxiety.

With one leap he jumped back into bed and curled his skinny body into a tight ball, his breath now coming in short, hard gasps. He was afraid. He was so afraid and he had no idea why. Blindly, he searched for his teddy bear and pressed it against his body, tucking it under his chin.

"I'll take care of you, Dean-o," He said to his favourite toy. "No one's gonna hurt you. I promise."

It took a while before he finally managed to fall asleep.

-o-

_"Where are you two?"_ Bobby asked before Dean had time to say hello into his mobile.

"Hey Bobby," Dean greeted, watching the scenery pass by. "Crossed the border to California about an hour ago."

_"Just got an interesting case. Could be coincidence but..."_ Bobby began and Dean sat up a little straighter in the seat. _"...sounds like demonic possession."_

"In San Fancisco?"

_"Palo Alto, exactly. Last night a student, Paul Venetti was found dead in an alley after witnesses had watched-and I'm citing here-an awfully bad breath come out of his mouth."_ Bobby snorted. _"That's a new one. What the hell do they teach in that university?"_

"Sounds like our thing," Dean nodded and locked eyes with his father, who was pressing his foot a little harder on the gas, pushing the car faster. "What else?"

_"That's it."_ Dean could hear ruffling, the sound of sheets of paper being flicked through. _"The boy was found on campus at three a.m. Witnesses weren't questioned since it looked like a natural case of death. Brain hemorrhage, my ass," _Bobby muttered._ "You got that?"_

"Brain hemorrhage, my ass. Got that," Dean confirmed.

_"Smart ass,_" Bobby said gruffly_. "Keep me informed."_ Without another word the older hunter cut the connection, leaving Dean behind with a father who had barely said a word since they had left the Singer salvage yard two days ago. With a few words Dean explained the situation and his father gave a short nod to indicate his understanding.

Dean had no idea what he was expecting but, oh God, he had many things he was_ hoping_ for. Answers, for one. Second, his brother would be nice. Thinking like that hurt like a bitch and every single time Dean let his thoughts wander he wished he could just scrub away the memory and useless hopes. His brother was dead (_broken-burnt-ashes_) and going to a place like Stanford was probably not the best way of dealing with it. Why did those fucking demons choose that city, of all places? The city where the sun was always shining. The city, where everyone was young and carefree and where demons and bad shitty things just had no right to be.

In his life Dean had been everywhere but there had to be a reason why he was passing the city borders of San Francisco for the first time on that particular day- heading for a cryptic destiny and heading for Sam.

For once, they chose the highway to enter the city and they were surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of cars driving past them. Expensive looking Rovers and Ferraris and Cadillacs, their chrome sparkling and twinkling like the owners didn't rest it in a garage over night but in a car wash. Even though Dean loved the Impala, he felt ridiculously out of place in it.

"We should split," His father said. Dean wasn't surprised. They usually did when at the beginning of a case to cover more ground and gather more information. Apparently, this case wouldn't be any different whereas it _felt_ different. Something would be waiting at the end of this road and Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was.

A few exits and turns later, the Impala halted on a busy side street, filled with little shops and apartment houses. According to Bobby's information this is where the boy had been found and it was probably the best place to start with the search. Dean got out of the car, reached for his duffel on the backseat and leaned down to look into the car at his father.

"Call me if something comes up. I'll get us a room."

Dean nodded. "Yes Sir."

With that, the Impala took off and left Dean behind, standing like a lost puppy on the sidewalk in the middle of Palo Alto, California. He watched his father drive away before turning and taking a look around.

The street was bustling, most of them young people in little groups, books in their arms and talking vividly about some scientific crap that Dean had no way of understanding. Not that he wanted to, either, but the atmosphere was odd. It made Dean feel even less welcome and more than before he felt like he just didn't belong here. Slowly, he started to walk, looking at the map in his hand, on which he had marked the position where the student had been found. Five minutes later he had reached it. He was standing in a narrow alley with garbage cans decorating the walls. Mountains of soppy cardboard boxes with unidentifiable content. In this matter, Palo Alto was like any other city in the country.

There was no sign of a struggle, no signs of police investigations. It had been a death by natural cause, after all. Why should they investigate? Because of an exceptionally bad breath? Dean chuckled and folded his map. There was nothing here that would provide information. A swift look around made him walk back to the street where he had come from and took a few seconds to orient himself. On the other side of a street he could see a tiny copy shop, a hairdresser and a diner, that advertised fresh apple pie. The interest it piqued in Dean was anything but professional.

A little bell rang above him when he entered the diner and he looked around quickly. It was empty but that could have been the time. It was only early afternoon. The ambiance was like one of those diner's from the 50's. Screaming red benches with yellow tables and Grease, Saturday Night Fever and Footloose posters were hanging on the walls. It smelled like grease, too. But there was also the delicious smell of hot french fries and grilled hamburger. Dean's mouth began to water after only seconds and he walked to the counter, sitting down on a bar stool. A young woman walked towards him with a friendly smile and cute dimples. She had bright, almost watery blue eyes, full lips and a round face, framed by a few strands of dark blond hair that had gotten loose from her ponytail. Her white, clean uniform was hugging her easily and she walked a light step. Her smile was sincere and wide when she greeted him.

"Hello, what can I get you?"

With one look at her name tag he answered. "Hello, Dee. Whatever you can recommend, I guess," He smiled back and she leaned her hip against the counter when she stared up into the air, probably trying to remember the dish of the day.

"Well, you can't do much wrong with the Hawaii-burger," She said, enticingly.

"Pineapple? On my burger? Are you kidding?"

She laughed in understanding and turned around, yelling towards the kitchen "One Double Cheese with Extra onion... and two apple pies, one to go."

He studied her, impressed, and nodded. "Not bad. Have you ever been mistaken?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "But I suppose I was lucky this time, huh?"

"Dead-on."

The bell above the door rang and Dean turned to look at the small figure entering the diner. A young boy, not older than eight or nine had come in, striding with his head lowered over an open book. An unruly mob of hair was hanging low in the little boys face and Dean watched as he expertly maneuvered around the tables and chairs standing in his way without looking up. The boy walked towards the other side of the counter to climb on a bar stool that almost reached him to his chin.

"Hey honey," the waitress, Dee, had walked over and gave the boy a kiss on the top of his head, before he finally looked up, his brown eyes fixed on the woman, who probably was his mother. "How was your day?"

"Okay," The boy answered, his concentration back on the book and Dean realized he had been staring. It took quite some effort to avert his gaze after the display had left him confused and strangely touched. Unable to stop himself he looked back at the boy, observed his lips moving with the soundless words of the book and froze when the boy looked up under Dean's intense scrutiny. The boy's eyes widened for a second when his gaze fell on Dean and his forehead wrinkled in stern concentration. Something about the boy felt strange and it took Dean a few moments before he could put his fingers on it. There was a certain familiarity about him that made Dean's heart stutter in his chest. An affection that he hadn't felt in eight years. The large brown eyes blinked at him, wide open with something like surprise and wariness unusual for a boy that age.

"There you go," Dee put a plate with the ordered hamburger in front of Dean, startling him out of his thoughts. Again, she smiled at him but he could see she was mildly creeped out by his staring at her son. But something in this picture was missing and the feeling crawled over Dean's spine like marching ants. The waitress was still staring at him with a frown. He forced himself to grin sheepishly.

"I just..." He motioned towards the little boy, stammering. "He... I didn't..." Taking a deep breath he finally sighed. "He reminds me of my little brother."

"Oh," she answered, not sounding convinced but at least not looking like she wanted to call the police for him being a pervert. That was a plus.

"He just... he died a few years ago."

_Why the hell am I telling her this?_

Her face fell, her mouth opening in a soundless 'o' and her eyes lost their suspicious tinge. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Who was he kidding? Nothing was okay. Sam was dead and he was sitting in a diner eating grease-dripping hamburgers. He'd lost his appetite completely all of a sudden. "It's a long time ago." He could feel the boy's eyes on him, boring into him.

"That's awful. I'm really sorry." There was an honest sympathy in her voice and he swallowed painfully. What had gotten into him? He had never talked about it with anyone but the waitress seemed deeply moved by his confession. She held Dean's gaze for a few seconds before she assured herself that her son was still sitting safe and sound at the counter. A surge of panic and fear crossed her face and Dean felt like an ass for being the cause of such profound emotions in a stranger. In a young woman with an eight year old, of all people. If he didn't rot in hell for the frauds and other criminal activities in his line of work, he'd definitely hit the ditch for that one, that much was clear.

"No," He said hurriedly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be... Just ignore me, okay? I'll just eat now."

She looked like she wanted to say something but decided otherwise, walking away stiffly and Dean wasn't surprised when she walked back straight to the boy, ruffling through his hair affectionately.

To Dean's surprise his appetite returned quickly. The burger was delicious. Juicy and with the perfect amount of onions and mixed pickles, Just the way he liked it. From the corner of his eyes he still watched the little boy and his mother but his attention was directed to a newspaper lying folded next to him, that someone had probably left behind after reading. Curious, he skimmed through it and found the obituaries on one of the last pages. There, in the upper left corner was the grainy photograph of a young man, smiling shyly into the camera. Beneath it stood in simple letters "RIP - Paul Venetti - 2/13/1987 - 4/26/2007."

Distracted, he put his meal down and tried to gather information just by staring at it really intently. It didn't work though

"Did you know him?" He hadn't even realized the waitress had come back to his place. He was glad he hadn't pushed her into a deep depression with his stupid rush of emotionality and shook his head.

"Me? No." Wiping his mouth with a napkin he added conversationally, "But I heard about it in the news. Terrible. I hope you..." He pointed at his image. "Did you ... know him?"

She threw a quick glance at the picture and something like confusion shadowed her face. "Maybe, I don't know. There's a lot of people coming here. I might have seen him once or twice. But... no, I don't really." She shrugged her shoulder and at Dean's worried face she added, smiling. "So, no. Don't worry. Not poking in open wounds at my expense."

"Oh, good. Don't wanna spoil the good mood here."

She chuckled and her eyes twinkled, full of life. Dean found it hard to imagine that anything could spoil her mood at all.

"I heard..." He began carefully, taking another bite from his burger. "It happened somewhere close by?"

"Yeah," She nodded. "Just across the street in one of the alleys. But I wasn't here when it happened. I was at home with my son, Matt."

So, it really was her son and his name was Matt.

"Matt, huh? He likes to read?" Dean asked, grinning widely.

"Matt and his books are like this." She held her right hand into the air, middle and index finger entwined.

"I see," Dean said, surprised when the last bite of his burger was gone and another plate with a piece of pie appeared in front of him, still warm from the oven. The smell was sweet and rich with apple. "That smells great," He praised and took a bite, closing his eyes in blissful rapture. "Oh my God, that's the best apple pie ever."

She grinned and nodded. "I'll wrap up the second piece for you."

"Awesome!"

She busied herself with some foil and Dean took his time with the apple pie, wanting to enjoy it as long as possible, when he found himself being stared at by the boy.

"Hey!" Dean said, with his mouth full.

"You're not supposed to talk with your mouth full," The boy chastised with a frown from his place ten feet away.

"You're right," Dean replied, after having swallowed. "So, Matt, you come here often?"

"My mom works here. I come here every day after school," He explained shyly. "We just live one block away but I don't want to be alone at home."

"I know what you mean. Empty rooms always make me feel bored."

"Yeah..." The little boy ducked his again, his nose only inches away from the open book.

"What are you reading?"

"A book."

Dean rolled his eyes. That answer was just so _Sam _and the boy he was talking to hadn't even reached puberty yet. He felt sorry for the boy's mother because he knew Matt would be a hard nut to crack when he got older.

"No shi..." The waitress, who was watching his chat with her son like a mother hawk watching her babies, shot him a disapproving look. "...kidding. What's it about?"

"About a wizard."

"A wizard, huh?" Matt nodded.

"What can he do? Produce white bunnies out of hats?"

"No, he's a real wizard. With a wand," Matt explained, his enthusiasm about the book showing in the twinkling of his eyes and the way he swished and flicked his hand through the air. "He can do real magic and stuff. Like making things float. And he can fly on a broomstick."

"Aaah, Harry Potter," Dean grinned.

"Yeah," Matt confirmed happily. "Did you read it?"

Dean shook his head, his memories with his brother who - eight years ago - had tried to hide the book in his duffel, afraid of what his big brother would have to say about the fact that he was reading a kids novel. It had turned out to be a justified fear because when Dean had found out, he had started to tease his little brother without mercy. The hunter smiled at the memory, pondering about how Sam would never hear the end of the story.

"No, I didn't. How does it end?"

The boy had actually gotten up and moved closer, now sitting next to Dean, the heavy book pressed against his side.

"I don't know. The last book hasn't been published yet."

"Oh."

"That's okay. I will have time to read it later." Matt smiled. "The story is about a long journey towards what awaits you when you reach your destination. It'd be stupid to know the ending before finding out everything about the path."

Stunned, Dean blinked. Who the hell was that kid? With an astonished expression he turned towards the boy's mother who was clearly amused by his wonder.

"It's not my fault," She laughed and pointed at her son with her index finger. "He was like this when I got him."

"What the heck do you feed him with?" The only answer was a shrug of her shoulder and a grin.

"I like pancakes," Matt replied instead.

"That's my favourite, too. Pancakes with bananas," Dean said.

Matt nodded eagerly. "And chocolate syrup."

"You say it, kiddo!" Dean exclaimed and reached out his hand to have Matt high five it with his small fingers, before turning to his empty plate. "Dee? That apple pie was epic."

"Thanks. I'll make sure the message goes to the right person."

Out of the pocket of his jacked he produced a couple of bills and put them on the counter, next to the extra piece of apple pie which had been neatly wrapped up in several layers of foil. "I'm actually sorry but I gotta go. It was really nice meeting you." At the last words he looked at Matt whose face fell.

"You're welcome, ..." She paused and he got the hint.

"Dean, my name is Dean."

"You're welcome, Dean. It was nice meeting you, too."

With one last look at Matt, Dean grabbed the still warm apple pie and stood up, turning his back towards the mother and her son, another two people he had met just once and probably would never see again. He walked towards the door when his eyes fell on a panel of pictures hanging next to the counter. It had written "Welcome to Cindy's Diner" written in large letters on it. Under it were a row of pictures from staff members. A cook, a few women, probably more waitresses... and Dee. The picture looked like it was taken randomly, her hair was flying, probably in the middle of a head spin to look at the person who had taken the photograph. Under it he could read her full name...and froze.

_Destiny 'Dee' Caravan_

Coincidence was not a word in Dean's regular vocabulary. Okay, it was probably a coincidence that he had seen a black Chevy '67 Impala a few weeks ago on the parking lot of their current motel that wasn't theirs. Also, it was a coincidence that the last woman he'd wanted fun with had a little brother called Sam and she had regretted telling him because it had ruined Dean's mood and their evening. Physically speaking.

But meeting a woman called Destiny a hundred feet away from where a young man died after demonic possession?

He didn't believe in coincidences. Not like that.

The name had hit him like a sledgehammer. He didn't remember leaving the diner. He didn't remember crossing the street. Didn't even remember sitting down on the bench to stare at the traffic without seeing it. There was just one thought in his head.

_Find destiny, find Sam._

He had found destiny, his destiny, in the presence of a young waitress with a little son called Matt. And where there was a Destiny there should be a Sammy.

His throat constricting, he closed his eyes, squashing down his emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

_Now where _is_ Sam_?

Sam was dead. No question. Dean choked down a sob, ignoring the perplexed look of a passersby, laden with heavy bags.

This was a coincidence. A fucked up coincidence. Some universal entity had just won ten bucks and was having a laugh at the expense of Dean's turmoil. _Haha, very funny._ Dean wanted to shake his fists at someone, just so he could have someone to shout his anger at about being played like a joker in a card game. Yes, coincidence.

They were here to kick some demon ass. That's what he should concentrate on, not a single mom with an eight year old kid. Embarrassed he rubbed his hands over his face. This was not like him. He needed more information about the dead boy, needed to get a lead on something that didn't involve apple pie and Harry Potter books.

He needed...

_...Sam._

His cell started to ring in that moment and he cleared his throat before answering.

"Yes?"

_"Dean? Where're you?" _His father sounded grumpy. Never a good sign.

"Uhm... where you left me." That sounded incredibly pathetic and obviously his father thought so too.

_"You were supposed to gain information not twiddle your thumbs on some bench."_

Quickly, Dean stood up looking behind himself at the graffiti-covered bench. How the hell did his father do that? "I'm..."

_"I'll pick you up in five minutes."_

His father ended the call without giving Dean a chance to reply. He had five minutes to get his bearings.

-o-

The end of her shift had been delayed for almost three hours. With two of her co-workers sick with the flu and one broken espresso machine that exploded hot milk all over the counter it was almost nine p.m., much later than usual, when Dee finally reached her apartment, Matt's fingers wrapped around hers. He hadn't let go ever since they had left the diner, his fingers squeezing almost painfully.

"Is everything okay, sweetheart?" She had asked, holding her hand against her son's forehead to see whether he maybe was coming up with something too.

"I just want to go home."

She had stared at him for a moment before nodding. He had been quiet all afternoon, writing and drawing into his notebook and when she wanted to see what he was drawing, he had closed it abruptly, hiding his pictures from her. "You're much too young to draw naughty pictures." She had laughed. He had stared at her non-plussed.

The door sprang open and she expected her son to wriggle himself into their home under her arms but he stood behind her, looking fearfully back onto the streets. Sundown had been an hour ago and dusk had settled quickly, making the street lamps flicker to life one by one. No one was on the street and for a fleeting moment Dee remembered the young man who had taken residence on the other side of the street a few days ago. The one she had gotten no real good look at but who had strangely looked similar to the photograph in the newspaper.

_Just a coincidence_, Dee decided and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside when she entered her apartment. There was no sign of Jess and a small note was pinned to the magnet board right next to the door.

_Out with Zack and Rebecca. Don't wait up for me. Jess_.

So much for a girl's night in front of the TV with manicure and Desperate Housewives.

To her surprise Matt was still standing outside, looking fearful and she sighed. She was not up to this. Not today.

"Come in, honey. It's late and you should be in bed."

"I don't want to. I think there's someone in the house."

Something like anger started to build in Dee. "Matt, I'm not going to say this again. I'm tired and tomorrow is a school day."

"But mom, ..."

"No buts, little man..."

Her son looked like he was about to cry and his little face crumbled in nameless frustration. Hesitantly he stepped over the threshold, looking left and right as if he was expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. Dee shivered and closed the door to keep the evil of the world outside-unaware that the real evil was already in the house.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **The usual. Not mine. Which is not my idea though... *makes sadface*

* * *

**~ Chapter 4 ~**

_-  
Though these wounds have seen no wars_  
_Except for the scars I have ignored_  
_And this endless crutch, well it's never enough_  
_It's been the Worst Day Since Yesterday_

Flogging Molly - Worst Day since Yesterday  
_-_

* * *

Their motel was only four blocks away from the diner, Dean realized when he arrived shortly after nine with his father. Nested between apartment houses it was run down and in severe need of paint and thereby looking like any other motel they had been into. Its shabbiness felt familiar, welcome even. Dean stepped inside, heaving the large duffel bag over his shoulder onto the bed, the weapons rattling inside.

After being picked up, he and his father had made a quick visit to the morgue to get a professional confirmation of the cause of death. But the interrogation hadn't produced new insights. Some blahblah about exploding blood vessels and hypocritical disapproval about too high blood cholesterol levels by a pathologist who looked like a stranded whale himself and father and son had called it a night.

While his father was his usual grim self, Dean found it hard to concentrate, his thoughts meandering back to Dee and her son and, admittedly, the apple pie which he was now putting on the small table next to the only window.

The dessert had gotten a little more pressure than necessary and looked a little flatter than it had been when he'd gotten it. The juicy goodness was leaking out of foil and he licked his sticky fingers. The taste hadn't changed a bit.

"I'm not hungry. You want the pie?" He asked his father, who had vanished into the bathroom leaving the door open. Dean could hear the faucet running.

"Not hungry?" John asked when he came out again, eyebrows raised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just not hungry. Had a piece at the diner. It's awesome."

His father made a growling sound in his throat and started to unpack the weapons. He hadn't used them which didn't mean they didn't deserve another cleaning. In the meantime, Dean started sorting the information they'd got. Maps, newspaper clippings and some "borrowed library material" as well as a copy from Paul Venetti's death certificate and autopsy report, the usual bedside reading.

"We should go back to that diner," John Winchester announced firmly, looking intently at the map of Palo Alto in which he was in the process of marking every traceable demonic activity over the last few weeks. "It's our best shot at the moment."

Dean's stomach clenched. "Why?" It came out more harshly than he had intended and his father looked up suspiciously.

"Because," John answered, eyes narrowed. Pointing his pen at the paper, he made a circling motion and explained "The activities seem to occur in a rough two mile radius with the diner in the center." He looked up, looking sharply at his son. "Who did you talk to exactly?"

"Just with..." He made a small pause, long enough for his father to lift his head. "... with the waitress. Did I mention the apple pie is God's gift to mankind?" He hesitated. "Uhm, the waitress name..."

"Name?" John urged, his face a sour grimace.

"Her name was ... Destiny. That's... a coincidence, right?"

He wanted to hear something like _Yes, Dean, that's a coincidence. Now eat your pie!_ but for a few seconds he didn't get anything but his father's intense stare.

"The waitress' name was Destiny?" John inquired.

"I questioned her...about the dead guy. She told me she didn't know him." Dean swallowed, a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. "And I ate pie. End of story."

There was a short silence between the two men and Dean realized exactly, why it was so hard to tell his father this. It sounded ridiculous. Pathetic. He was looking for bread crumbs in a forest and the name of a young woman with an eight year old son had nothing to do with destiny. At least not _his_ destiny. But maybe...

"What else?"

"That's it. I told you it was nothing."

Somehow, it didn't feel like nothing. On the contrary, it felt like _something_. Something important. Something that made his stomach squirm and the hairs on his back stand up.

"This sounds..."

"...like nonsense. I know," Dean finished his father's sentence. "I don't... I didn't think it means anything but..."

"Where does she live?"

"Not sure. Definitely nearby. Her son said they lived a block away."

"Which could possibly make their home the exact center of the demonic activities."

"You want me to..."

"Go, check it out!" John finished the sentence absentmindedly, already concentrating back on the reports. "No need for both of us to sit around."

Dean nodded, almost happy to get out of the room. He needed fresh air to clear his head and get a grip on sanity. A strange sense of urgency made him speed up and he wondered where it was coming from.

The drive back to the diner took him less than five minutes and he parked the Impala directly in front of it in the no parking zone, jumping out of the car and taking the distance to the glass door with a few long strides.

It was quarter past nine and compared to earlier it was crowded. Most of the tables were occupied by large groups of students and Dean spotted two waitresses meandering between them. Another one was standing behind the counter. And none of them was Destiny.

"Excuse me?" He grabbed the arm of the first waitress, who looked at him half frightened, half annoyed. "Destiny? Is she working in the moment?" He asked, hoping to sound as urgent as it felt.

The woman, her name tag read Megan, shook her head, red curls flying. She looked like she was about to dump the content of the half empty milkshakes over his head. But she answered anyway. "No, she works the day shifts." Already walking on she turned her back towards Dean and he quickly grabbed her again, pulling her back so she faced him. The glasses on her tray swayed precariously and one was tipping over, sprinkling him with what looked and smelled like coconut.

"Can you tell me where she lives?"

She stared at him, now clearly alarmed. Vainly, she tried to wriggle her arm out of his grip and he was painfully aware of two dozen or more pairs of eyes on him. He really needed the information _before_ he was being kicked out or even worse thrown into a drunk tank.

"No!" She replied hotly. "Are you nuts? I most definitely won't tell some maniac the address of a friend."

"Look, I'm sorry. I don't have time for this." He let go of her, putting every ounce of effort in his voice to make it as severe as possible. "She might be in danger." Pronouncing every single word an intensity that made the other customers shrink back in either distress or disgust he hoped this would be enough.

"What do you mean?" At least she didn't run away.

"The death of the young boy three days ago?"

"The boy who died around the block?"

"That might not have been natural at all. I..." He looked around, finally aware of how much attention he was getting. Bad, really bad. And incredibly stupid. Maybe he was getting himself worked up over something that was just a coincidental choice of a name. She was probably sitting in front of the TV, blissfully ignorant about things that bumped in the night. On the other hand, better safe than sorry. "I just want to make sure she's okay."

"Are you a crazy serial killer or something?" She asked and Dean cringed, sighing soundlessly.

"Would you actually believe me if I told you no?" He answered and she deflated visibly.

"Probably not, huh?"

"I'm..." He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for the emergency fake ID he always carried around just in case situations like that happened. It worked miracles. Holding the card into the air the customer turned back to their earlier discussions, disappointed that they would not be witnesses of a robbery, a kidnapping or something equally mundane. "I'm from the police, okay?"

Megan, too, visibly changed her attitude and her distrustful face quickly changed into a expression of worry. People were just too trustful these days.

"Is she in trouble?"

"Not yet. Maybe never," Dean answered in earnest. "But I really need to know where she lives to confirm that."

"Don't you guys have databases for stuff like that?"

_Gosh, she's an awful interviewee and definitely watching too much fancy crime on TV._

"Yes...no. No time for that. I need the information _now!_"

She swallowed and looked around, looking around she expected help from bystanders. When she didn't get any she sighed heavily, pointing her fingers out of the diner.

"Go right around the corner and two streets further down. There's a newspaper kiosk across her street."

He was already rushing out, leaving her yelling voice behind. He considered walking the short distance but dismissed the idea instantly. Instead he climbed back into the car and started the engine, making a vicious u-turn. The smell of burned rubber lingered for a moment before dissipating into the chilly air.

-o-

Destiny Caravan was one of those persons whose life was full of balance. It was a moderate roller-coaster, well considered by the all mighty creator to make no one puke their guts out when they had too much popcorn before the ride. A series of ups followed by series of downs. Yin and Yang. Carrots and sticks.

There were times of joy, there were times of tears. She didn't regret, didn't feel bad about anything in her past. Not even the part where she had been pregnant underage. She had stayed optimistic, had always known that time would make things get back to normal and nice and worth it.

As a child she had been loved and sheltered. She had grown up in a street where homes were open and doors unlocked. The street belonged to the children and cars had to buy their paths through the masses with chocolate bars and skipping ropes. She'd had a goldfish named Suzie, then a rabbit called Mr. Binky. She had gotten her first kiss at fourteen and it had been awkward like every first kiss was supposed to be. Sloppy and wet and she hadn't like it at all even though Barney, who had worn glasses almost thicker than her pinky, had asked her to do it again.

She had gone shopping with her mom to get a dress for her junior prom and had cried over the first boy who broke her heart three weeks later, swearing to never fall in love again. The promise already forgotten another three weeks later.

Then she had lost her mother when she was sixteen. It had been quick, almost merciful in contrary to other possible cancer scenarios. Her mother had given her one last wish on her way to adulthood. _Grow up to be happy. That's what life is about._ _It's about smiling and hugging and loving someone and be well loved in return._ She had sobbed into her mother's shoulder and had promised to grow up to be grateful for everything life threw at her. Whether it was good or bad. She would stand up, dust off her pants and laugh in destiny's face to show who was in charge.

Her name was the very rebellion against a fate that she would not always be able to change.

She had gotten pretty good at it over the years and was convinced, this had to do with a certain eight year old who was now standing in the hallway, shaking like a leaf.

She felt goosebumps mark her skin and the hairs on her neck stand up. Standing in the middle of her own apartment she felt like a stranger. It felt as alien as if she had been standing on the moon. The sight familiar, yet the movement of air around her not from this world. Her arm felt heavy when she reached out to switch on the light, bathing the hallway in a yellow glimmer. Nothing was out of place. The photographs on the wall, the vase with the fresh flowers Jess had brought along yesterday. The doors leading to the other rooms were all open, inviting and a hysterical bubble of laughter hovered close to the surface of her emotions.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?" She whispered, not really sure why she was whispering in the first place.

"I don't..." He trailed off, his small voice quivering and she felt her heart shatter with the pure terror she could hear in it. She wanted to bend down and wrap her arms around his shoulders but she couldn't move. Her limbs wouldn't listen. The purse - still slung around her shoulder -was sliding down her arm and landed on the floor. Unable to catch it as it fell Destiny stared at her son. "I don't like this man," He said, then in a pleading voice. "Please, mom, don't make me go away again."

It didn't make sense and she wanted to tell him that. Never! Never would she send him away. She would never leave him - not in the deepest sense of meaning - and whenever he needed her she would be there for him. All of a sudden it felt important to tell him that. Tears pooled in her eyes but she couldn't wipe them away.

And when a man, his yellow eyes glaring at her mischievously, stepped around the corner out of Matt's room the only thing she thought was: Matt had known all along.

-o-

The newspaper kiosk was a mere collection of planks hammered together to give a little protection from the sun and wind. At this time it was empty, the wooden flap was closed, the news racks void of paper. Across the street were terraced houses, neatly packed and close to each other. Some of the windows were lighted, and through some Dean could hear the TV blasting. Somewhere further down the street cars were driving along the busy main street and a dog was barking. Nothing unusual. Just the peaceful sounds of a relatively quiet neighborhood. Some pedestrians outside, walking their dogs or moving in little groups. Just what Dean needed - more nosey students. Some were looking at him with open distrust.

Heart racing, Dean got out of the car. Leaning casually against it he tried to look as inconspicuous as possible which was easier said than done with his fingers wrapped around his gun. The act was forgotten when a yell ripped through the peaceful quiet. It wasn't loud enough to raise attention if you weren't standing right in front of the house it came from. It could have been from a movie on TV. Or even from an angry girl who was kicking her boyfriend out of the flat for some far-fetched reason. There were many reasons why a woman would scream. Not all of them bad. Dean had experience with _those_ kind of screams too. But since he did not believe in coincidences-that much he had found out about his trip to Palo Alto-he was moving before the echo had trailed off.

From the corners of his eyes he could see something flare up in one of the windows to his right and he didn't need to look at it to know that it was fire. His shoulder hit the closed door. The wood crunched under the impact but not budging an inch. Another sound from behind the door, a barely audible whimper and a high pitched "Mom!"

Pain flared in Dean's shoulder and he gasped for breath. A narrow window was placed next to the door and without thinking, he rammed the butt of his gun against it. The glass splintered after the second smash and wriggling his arm through the hole he reached for the knob from the inside, opening the door and rushing inside in one fluent motion. The hallway lay in darkness but an open door showed warm, reddish flickering. Dean turned around the corner, holding the gun ready in front of him and in a fraction of a second he assessed the situation. Matt was standing on his bed, a teddy bear pressed against his chest. One of his arms reached out towards his mother who was sliding across the wall, the top of her head almost against the ceiling. She saw him first, her eyes large and revealing the terror she must be feeling. _"Help!"_ they seemed to scream while her mouth was working but not producing any sound.

A man with his back towards Dean was standing in the middle of the room, head cocked to the side and he turned around, an expression of honest surprise on his face. In the meantime the was engulfing the heavy curtains. It had started to lick on the walls, the wallpaper begun peeling down and the smell of burning filled the room. It spread fast, already having reached the shelf with children's books.

"Dean?" He said, the voice deep and almost purring. Surprise quickly hidden behind a mask of evil arrogance. "Oh, what an idiot I am." He scratched the back of his head. "I should have expected you. You and your father are always there when you're _not_ needed and noticeably absent when you _are_. Well... at least depending on the view. Guess _I_ had luck the last time, huh?" The man threw a piercing look at the little boy who was trembling in obvious fear on the bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, not giving a rat's ass on the answer but hoping to win a few seconds.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" The man's lips parted in a burlesque attempt of a smile and looked almost pleasantly surprised. "Let me give you a hint." Lines were deepening around his eyes and Dean finally realized his eyes were glinting in an unnatural shade of yellow.

"Azazel!" Recognition hit Dean like a freight train and he stumbled. Never before had he seen the man who had killed his mother and, supposedly, his brother but the color of his eyes was a dead giveaway-in the truest sense of meaning. Blood-red anger threatened to blind him and he had to remind himself of breathing. At least, he had accomplished what he had hoped. Azazel's concentration was on him. Without taking his eyes of his opponent Dean could see Matt climbing off his bed behind the demon's back and rush to a table to climb back on it and reach his mother's feet. Seconds later she fell, tumbling over the table and taking her son with her. It made Azazel turn around and he lifted his hands about to start some wicked mojo again when Dean aimed and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times. Azazel's body staggered under the bullets, more perplex than really hurt. But it gave them a few seconds. Enough for Destiny and her son to pass Azazel and Dean on their way out of the room.

Smoke was now starting to fog Dean's view in earnest, the rancid stink scratching in his throat. Heat was becoming unbearable when the fire engulfed the ceiling in a small explosion that made Dean fall backwards out of the room and on his ass, ushering the woman and her son in front of him through the hallway. Just out. Out and away. Finally the night air, even though it was mild and warm, bit his heated skin when he reached the pavement where Destiny was holding her son pressed against her, the boy's legs wrapped around her waist and Dean could see them shiver in shock.

Her head turned, slowly, her eyes big and round, filled with a confusion that Dean could understand only too well. "This is my home." Her fingers flexed as she held onto the blue pjs of Matt. The quiet boy had buried his face into her side, holding onto her with all the strength he could muster with his skinny arms.

"We gotta leave. Now!" Dean urged, already hearing the sirens in the distance. "It's too late. I'll get you somewhere safe. I promise."

At his words, Matt's face turned towards him and Dean's almost buckled under the intense plea for help, for the wish to make things better directed at him. Making things better was not in his power. Had never been. Things he started turned out messy. People he met turned out broken. Brothers he had turned out dead. It was a cruel fact.

How could Dean possibly make things better for others if he hadn't yet found a way to make his own life worth it?

He waited until Destiny had slid into the passenger seat next to her son before rounding the car and getting in himself. He started the engine and as the car sped up he watched the burning house in the rear view mirror getting further away, wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves into.

-o-

"Get them out of here!" John Winchester bellowed, his eyes narrowed so tightly that Dean couldn't see their iris' anymore. "When I told you to check it out I didn't mean to bring them in. We don't need civilians here." _Civilians _sounding more like swear word.

"Dad...!" Yes, maybe Dean did sound a little pouting but that was not surprising. Dee was still standing next to the door, Matt in front of her. They hadn't even entered the room before hurricane John had started to sweep them out again with Dean standing between them. She flinched under John Winchester's tirade, too shocked to defend herself. Matt had resolved to staring alternately at Dean and John, his round face a mask of utter stoicism. Dean threw a quick glance at the woman and her son, hoping to offer some comfort when John kept ranting. Sure, Dean got it. His father was angry. Been there, done that. It wasn't new. Wasn't even surprising. Dean hadn't expected his father to welcome the two refugees with open arms and a warm soup but throwing them out like unwanted invaders?

What had happened with _saving people, hunting things_? Situations like that made it clear, that their so-called family business had been _out of_ business since the very day Sam had died.

From the corner of his eye he could see Matt looking up at his Mom with fearful eyes and she did the only thing in her current condition that would help her out of the situation: Herding her son in front of her she vanished into the bathroom. She had enough to deal with in the moment to endure a live match of Winchester VS Winchester.

"I don't want them here!" John grunted when the bathroom door had closed.

"This is insane. Fuck! Didn't you hear what I said? He wanted to kill them. He wanted to kill the _boy,_" Dean hissed, keeping his voice down so Dee and Matt wouldn't have to hear it said out loud.

"I got it the first time, Dean," John answered.

"Care to explain why you want to throw them out then?"

Dean felt like a little boy again, who had found a little puppy and was now asking his father to keep it, with the metaphorical puppy being sharply aware of the commotion it caused.

His father's reaction was confusing the hell out of Dean. Sure, he hadn't expected his father to do a happy dance on the table at the aspect of being so close to Azazel that the smells of his fire was still lingering in Dean clothes, but the outright objection to even give shelter for one crappy night... Sometimes Dean felt painfully ashamed of his father. This moment? Definitely one of them.

"The boy's name is Matt," Dean said, lowering his voice. "He's eight years old and today a demon wanted to kill him and his mother. And you want to throw him out? What's wrong with you?" Dean asked, disappointed. "Does this have to do with Sam?"

John visibly deflated, his glare falling once more on the bathroom door.

"Dad, talk to me! I need to understand what's going on."

"You know everything you need to."

"Bullshit! I'm not your fucking subordinate here. First, I'm your son. Second, your partner. If we're going against that demon, I have to know what we're up against." John was silent and with a sliver of hope, Dean felt on the verge of a breakthrough. Just for the split of a second he felt like John wanted to spill everything on his mind just to get rid of it. Like shaking off a heavy burden. But the moment fled like flock of birds after a gunshot with the gunshot being caused by the accursed ringing of John's mobile and the older man reached for it like it was a life-saver in the middle of the open sea.

"Yes!" he bellowed into the phone and in an instant eyes widened almost comically. The female voice on the other end was piercing enough that even Dean, standing five feet away, could hear what it was saying.

_"So, are you two done bickering? If so, bring them to me. The poor boy and his mother don't deserve to be in the company of you two fools."_

Dean and John looked at each other, well aware that the boy's future as well as his mother's was now in the hands of Missouri, not in theirs.

-o-

In the end, Destiny and Matt shared a bed, the young woman curling around her son under the blankets like a flower whose petals would not uncurl until the first rays of sunlight (_safety_) would kiss their pale skin. John, though, had retreated to the car. Or at least Dean had hoped his father was getting some sleep and wasn't lying awake, staring at the ceiling like he did. He was tired, wasted even, and he knew he'd equal a walking zombie in the morning if he didn't get some shut eye.

Getting up every few minutes he walked over to the window, glancing at his father who stubbornly spent the restless night in the Impala. Which was a really stupid thing to do with Azazel running around somewhere out there. But Dean was unable to persuade his father to come back into the relative safety of their motel room. Whatever it was, John was seeing in Matt, it was bad enough to abandon every safety precaution he himself had drilled into his son like they were the ten commandments and he was a catholic priest. It was unnerving and this fact made Dean stare at the little boy with restless anticipation and confusion.

It was still dark outside, the darkest hour before sunrise, when Dean gave up trying to fall asleep and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. Returning into the main room he left the bathroom light on and tiptoed over to where their guests were fast asleep. Dee's arm was protectively wrapped around Matt's chest and her breathing made his hair quiver with every other puff of air.

Dean leaned down, feeling something warm settle in his stomach and was about to reach out and free Matt's face of a stubborn curl that was hanging over his long, dark eyelashes when the boy's eyes open fast enough to make him stumble in surprise.

"Hey!" Dean said quietly. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Bad dreams." Matt was blinking rapidly, his eyes still overshadowed with lack of sleep.

"You should sleep. Today's gonna be a long day and..." Dean trailed of, thinking hard how to explain that little boy that his life as it had been was over. The life he had known probably burned down in an angry fire that had taken all their possessions as well as normality. His childhood. "I'm sorry, kiddo."

"It's okay," Matt replied, now fully awake, and he carefully wriggled free from under his mother's arm. She made a small noise of agitation before slipping back into a deeper slumber. "I know."

"What do you know?"

"That we have to go with you. To the nice lady. She bakes cookies," Matt explained, smiling shyly and Dean felt himself grow cold.

"How do you know we're going to bring you to Missouri?"

Matt shrugged his shoulder as if he was asked to explain how he knew what you got when you counted one plus one. "I just do. What's in that duffel?"

He pointed at Dean's bag in which he had stuffed his weapons to keep them out of sight.

"It's... I... my guns," Dean answered thrown off his guard.

The boys eyes widened in awe and Dean expected a flood of questions like _Can I see it?_ _Can I hold it? Did you ever shoot someone?_ when Matt looked at him with the serious expression and said: "Can I help you clean them?"

Dumbfounded, Dean back-pedaled, opening his mouth in fruitless attempts to say _"What the fuck? What kind of a kid are you?"_ when a memory hit him hard enough to make his vision blur. Like a short movie playing in front his eyes, showing a nine year old Sammy who had been watching his big brother clean those weapon for years now. Asking every evening whether he could help. Just help cleaning them because he knew weapons were dangerous and he was not supposed to touch them except when his father explicitly allowed it. Sammy had had a huge respect of them, had even refused to touch one if it was loaded at all until he had started to get his first shooting lessons when he turned twelve almost three years later.

Dean blinked for a moment then shook his head. "Sorry, not today."

Matt looked disappointed for a second before his smile widened and he looked at Dean hopefully. "Are we going to drive in the cool car of yours? Can I sit in the front?"

Dean was sure this was going to be one of the longest drives of his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong and I totally intend to give them back... more less unharmed.

* * *

**~ Chapter 5 ~**

_-_  
_Running just as fast as you can,  
You jump ship way quick but maybe it's thicker Than Water,  
I've got some good news for you my friend,  
Man is faster,  
You jump ship way quick but maybe it's thicker Than Water,  
One day you wake up and realize just what you're after. _

Todd Hanigan - Thicker  
_-_

* * *

They left LA before the morning rush hour begun. The sun was only just peeking from behind the mountains ahead of them when they left the city behind with Destiny and her son in the backseat. Matt was huddled beside his mother and Dean had hinted at the fact that they'd need to get some clothes for him while he had handed Dee one of his t-shirts to change out of her own clothes, which were still smelling of fire and sulfur.

Besides the lack of sleep for most of them, the night had been quiet without any signs of demons and Dean had already begun to wonder whether they _were_ dragging along a pair of uninvolved civilians who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Then again, one look at the boy and something wrapped itself around Dean's spine like the legs of a spider.

The boy was intelligent, bright and adorable. He hadn't realized it before but when he smiled his cheeks dimpled, his eyes sparkled and his slightly crooked teeth looked too big for his face. The boy screamed Sammy in his face. And when he looked at him with these innocent eyes Dean felt like either running away or shaking until Sammy - _his Sammy_ - fell out of him like coins out of a upside-down pair of jeans. It was a stupid thought and he had to gather all his might not to turn around repeatedly to stare at the boy (_Matt - his name is Matt_).

His father hadn't said a single word ever since they had gotten into the car. Two men, a woman and her son. Strangers. Having met less than twenty-four hours ago and yet their path was somehow leading into the same direction. And if he couldn't listen to his own feeling then at least he should listen to what Missouri Mosely had to say in it. She had the unfaithful gift to be right. With everything.

"Where exactly are we going?" Dee asked quietly, carefully, and Dean could see that she was intimidated big time by John Winchester's gruff mood. She looked like she wanted to give up breathing for it might anger his father. John Winchester though had decided to just ignore here presence which made Dean roll his eyes about his father's social manners. Once more he turned around in his seat, grateful for the excuse to look at the boy again. "Missouri Moseley, she's a friend," Dean answered. "You should be safe there."

"Oh, okay." She swallowed, clearly not yet satisfied with his reply and Dean wondered for a moment whether she was about to tell them to stop the car and let them out. Since last evening she had barely spoken. Merely 12 hours ago a demon had wanted to kill her and had almost succeeded if Dean hadn't shown up in the last second. Her home, her whole existence had burned away so quickly that they hadn't had time to rescue anything but the clothes she was wearing and Matt's teddy bear, which he apparently never let go of. So it didn't really surprise him when she wasn't finished asking questions. "Why? Why is this happening?" She breathed quietly and Dean sighed inaudible. If he was earnest, he would have expected the question much earlier.

"I don't know," he said, glancing at Matt, who was dozing in his mother's lap. "That's what we're going to find out."

She nodded and fell silent, staring back outside to the scenery that was rushing by so fast that it turned into a blurred mash.

The day felt long and never-ending. The car with the four passengers eating away mile after mile. They didn't stop except for gas and bathroom visits, conversation down to zero and Matt sleeping most of the time anyway. Being inside the car had a strangely calming effect on the boy and he only woke up when John killed the engine, bouncing awake so fast that it made his mother jump from surprise. "Are we there yet?" He asked every single time and Dean couldn't help the grim smile that was blossoming on his lips. But it vanished as fast as it had appeared when each time John's fingers curled around the steering wheel, knuckles turning a pale white. It was already after ten when they entered a small town by the name of Mallory, inhabited by no more than a thousand residents. Dean hadn't expected this, assuming that John would drive through the night stubborn as he was. So it came as a surprise when the car rolled onto the parking lot of the only motel of the town.

"We're stopping?" Dean asked and John grunted, not giving an answer at all but instead went to the reception area and came back two minutes later with two keys.

Dee looked relieved, Matt looked groggy. The boy rubbed his eyes furiously as if it would be enough to banish his tiredness from his little body.

"Are we there?" he asked, squinting his eyes against the neon light of the motel sign.

"No, honey. We're just stopping to get some sleep," Dee answered and scrambled out of the car, taking Matt's hand in her to follow John, who had grabbed a few bags and was already walking towards a long, flat building with numerous doors facing them. Each door with the number attached to it and determinedly John strode towards the second door on the left to unlock it, gesturing Dean and the two others inside.

"Secure the room! Don't take too long," John growled at his son. It was a long time since Dean had experienced his father in such a foul mood. He was beginning to wonder whether this was because they were intentionally running away from the demon his father had searched for such a long time or if maybe it was something else that was bothering his old man.

"Yes, Sir," Dean affirmed with a serious nod, then followed Dee and Matt.

Both were standing somewhat lost in the room and Dean felt another pang of regret. How come it was mostly innocent families who were being sucked into this kind of lifestyle? The one where you don't know how to sleep at night. Where you don't know if you better use your money for a burger or a tank full of gas because you don't know whether you'll still be alive after the next hundred miles but you don't want to die hungry either.

"So..." Dean clapped his hands in a surreal attempt to lighten the mood. It did work. At least where Matt was concerned. The boy's smile lit like a lantern and he all but jumped up and down, trying to wriggle his fingers out of his mother's grip.

"Can I help you to salt the windows?"

Startled, Dean asked. "Salt the windows?"

Dee actually rolled her eyes, as if salting windows was the biggest nonsense she could think of. "It's a weird habit he started to have a few months ago," She explained, sounding almost apologetic. "I have no idea where he got it from."

"Salting the window, huh?" Dean repeated but this time his gaze was directed at Matt. "Who told you about this?"

"I don't know," Matt answered shyly, biting his lips. "I don't remember."

"So, why do you do it then, if no one told you about it?" This time Matt merely shrugged his shoulder.

"Okay, let me see how you do it," Dean said, making it sound like a challenge. Like an invitation to do his best to fulfill Dean's requirements. Once it had been an amazingly helpful tactic with Sammy if the little boy didn't want to follow the orders their father had given. He had made it a little game, just between them. Who can make the straightest/highest/most even line? Sam had always won because Dean didn't want to spoil the fun for Sam.

"Okay," Matt's face lit up and he grabbed the can of salt that Dean had already put on the table. "My line will be the straightest."

The boy bounced off to begin with his assignment, tongue between his lips in arduous concentration and Dean felt his heart rate speed up.

This wasn't possible. This wasn't Sam. Because Sam was _dead_.

But every fiber of his body told him to grab this boy and hug him and ruffle his hair that was too long for their father's likings. Pain, that he had buried for such a long time longed to rise from the depths of his mourning subconscious. Yes, mourning he did. Still did after eight long years of the inevitable truth of his brother's death. Tears burned the insides of his lids as he watched Matt work.

"Are you okay?" Dee whispered, startling Dean out of his daze. He had almost forgotten she was in the room even though she was standing right next to him and had put a soft, warm hand on his upper arm. "You look like you're going to faint." She smiled a little, amused by the offended expression in Dean's face.

He huffed. "I don't faint... I..."

"Bad memories?"

"You could say that."

"Your brother?"

Dean cringed and hoped she hadn't felt it under her touch. "It was a long time ago."

"That's what everyone says when they don't want others to know how much it still frightens them."

"I'm not... frightened. It just... I miss him."

So, he had said it. For the first time. So what? It hadn't even hurt. She was quiet for a few moments and he felt her need to ask a question that he probably wouldn't want to answer.

"Would you tell me about him? Your brother I mean?"

Dean had no intention whatsoever to talk about his dead little brother but his mouth opened before he could prevent it.

"His name was Sammy," He began and waited for a reaction of Dee. There wasn't one; she just kept staring at him expectantly. "He died when he was sixteen."

"How did..." She stopped, probably realizing how much the question would hurt him but it was too late.

"It's okay," he assured. "It was an accident." _Yeah, sure._ "He fell." _More like being pushed_. "It was... an accident." He repeated lamely, trying to convince himself but it was clear to him that Sam's death was anything but an accident. Not after everything he had discovered and especially after everything his father was still keeping secret. The guilt he was carrying weighed more than ever before.

His little brother had been killed. Had he been aware of it? Was it fast? He hadn't shown any signs of a struggle. Just a look of surprise on his face, his open eyes matted over with the dull layer of death. His body a mangled wreck. Blood like a carpet around him and the white bones of his upper arm visible where it had broken through flesh and skin. His left foot sticking out beneath him at a sickening angle.

The picture rose sharply, like a movie in front of his inner eye and he rubbed his lids, hoping to dispel it from there. Feeling dizzy and nauseated, Dean swallowed painfully.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Dee said hastily. "I didn't mean to pry. It's not my business. I just... I don't know what I'd do if I lost Matt."

"You won't," Dean blurted out vehemently. "I won't let anything happen to him." _Not again._ "I promise."

"Nice try," she smiled sadly. "But you can't promise things like that."

"I can."

Silently watching the little boy prepare the salt ring around the door they sat next to each other on the edge of the bed, knowing that promises were nothing more than empty words if you weren't actually God himself. They were both intelligent enough to know that. But it was nice to try fooling themselves into a false hope.

"So," she asked, watching her son. "What is with the salt?"

"That's... actually..." He raked his hand through his hair. "I don't know where he knows it from but... salt is a protective element. It repels demons."

"It does?" Her eyes were wide open, a confused look on her face. "So... throwing salt over your shoulder..."

"Probably wouldn't do much more than make a demon sneeze but you're getting the point here," Dean confirmed with a wry smile.

She sighed, putting a shaking hand on her mouth. "This is totally the twilight zone."

Dean huffed. "Welcome to my world."

Somehow, he felt the need to console her. To take away her worries. Wanted to embrace her and assure the everything would be fine. But that would've been a stupid thing to do. Nothing would be fine again.

"How am I doing so far?" Matt asked throwing a hopeful look at Dean who nodded appreciatively.

"Looks good, buddy."

Indeed, Matt had tried hard to cover all of the window will without spilling anything on the floor. Just the way John Winchester had taught him. Him... Dean. Not Matt.

Dean cleared his throat. "How old is he?"

"He just turned eight." Dee smiled.

"Eight. Sam loved to play soccer when he was eight..." He murmured so low that she probably wouldn't even understand him.

"Dean?" He could feel her eyes on him but he couldn't take his own eyes off Matt.

"What?"

I think..." She began and looked back at her son who had foregone to put a circle around their beds. "I think Matt knew you'd be coming."

"What makes you say that?"

"On his birthday, when he turned eight, he got a stuffed bear from a friend of mine. I thought he was too old for it but Jess... my friend... she said he shouldn't grow up too fast. So... she got him a stupid teddy bear." The object lay discarded on the second bed. A brownish thing, stubby arm and legs and googly buttons as eyes. Her own eyes were shimmering with tears. Not enough to fall. Just creating a vague hint of memories that were now lying somewhere shattered within her soul. "He named it Dean."

-o-

They reached Lawrence, Kansas, late the next day after hundreds of miles of aggravating silence that rubbed on Dean's nerves harder than any open fight with his father had ever done. John's mood hadn't improved. On the contrary. As the day before he hadn't said a word the whole day, ignoring every other passenger in the car but Dean saw the glitches in his father's facade. The short glances he threw at the two people in the backseat. Maybe it wasn't hateful but there was something else, a deeply rooted unease that Dean had no explanation for. An anguish that Dean had seen only twice before in his father's face. The first time he could barely remember since he had been only four years old. The last time was eight years ago.

_Eight years._

_"He turned eight a few months ago."_

A thought crossed his mind that had him squirming in his seat, wishing for a undisturbed talk with his father about the boy. Maybe... maybe John saw it too? The familiarity. The home-ness the boy had to himself. The unlimited trust and understanding he kept showing. It could have been wishful thinking. It probably was, Dean chided himself and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Getting the two of them safely to Missouri. Maybe he'd never see them again after. He and his father would be leaving in a rush, he was convinced of it. John would make sure of that. Glancing back at the boy Dean wished they would drive on just so he could just keep looking.

"You will be safe here," He heard himself say aloud as he met Dee's doubtful gaze. She had wrapped her left arm around Matt, who was leaning against her, his chin lying on top of his teddy bear. His large eyes blinked at him and Dean was startled to see he was actually awake.

"You okay there, kiddo?" Dean asked with a smile.

"Yeah," Matt answered. "I'm fine. I'm just a little hungry."

"We're almost there." As if to underline his statement John slowed down the car to round a corner and from the distance Dean could already make out the plump form of Missouri Mosely, standing in the warm light of a lantern on the porch of her home, her arms folded in front of her chest and head tilted to the side, as if she aimed to criticize with just body language. It worked amazingly well and Dean felt intimidated already as if he had stolen cookies from her cookie jar without even setting foot into her kitchen.

Damn, she was good. And fucking scary.

John brought the car to a halt abruptly and looked at Dean. "Get them inside. I'll be back in a few hours. Tomorrow morning at the latest."

"You're leaving?" Dean asked, slightly taken aback by the rash dismissal but almost happy at the same time to get out of his father's immediate path, even if it was for just a few hours.

"I have... things to do," He answered, a slight hesitation in his words that only Dean's experience with his father revealed.

Knowing that any other comment would be meaningless Dean climbed out of the car together with Dee and Matt and before he had even banged the door shut the car peeled away with screeching tires and the angry, stomping form of Missouri Mosely approached, daring Dean to confront her. This was going to be fun.

"Dean Winchester!" She yelled and he turned around, putting on his most innocent expression... which didn't do anything but make steam come out of Missouri's ears. "Don't you wait there on the street. Get them inside!" She ordered and pointed at Dee and Matt. "I ain't got all night and the cocoa is getting cold."

At the mention of warm cocoa Matt's face lit up and before he could reply, Missouri added. "Of course there's marshmallows, young man. What do think of me?"

She smiled friendly, her round cheeks dimpling and some of the tension in Dean's back vanished when she threw him an encouraging look that quickly dissolved into her usual superiority.

"Thanks, Ma'am," Dean replied dutifully and had to hide a grin by lowering his head. Suddenly it felt good to be here, even if this was Lawrence, Kansas, the epicenter of their misery. Quickly he took a look around into the surrounding darkness, and then followed them inside.

"The bathroom is right here," he could hear Missouri say and Dee and Matt vanished inside the appointed accommodation while Dean entered the kitchen behind Missouri.

"Your father is a stubborn mule, boy," she complained and Dean chuckled.

"Who are you telling this?" He replied which got him a piqued look. "So," He squirmed under her scrutiny. "I suppose this house..." He glanced around, not really sure what to expect. It had been a long time ago that he had seen her, let alone been in her kitchen.

"... is as safe as it can be." She finished his thought. He had forgotten how it was to be in her ever knowing presence. "Wards are embedded in every wall. Devil traps at every entrance. Salt lines integrated at every window sill and threshold." She blinked at him. "Happy?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"So, the boy is quite a handful, isn't he?" Missouri began to chatter conversationally with her back to him while she fussed with the coffee machine.

"Hm."

"Excuse me? A cat ate your tongue? I'd appreciate you answering in full sentences, mister."

"Sorry, I just..." Dean had to think quickly to choose the words with which he wanted to confront Missouri with his foolish assumption. "He reminds me a lot of... you know..."

She didn't pry, didn't even seem remotely interested in his words and Dean had the impression that this is exactly why she had mentioned the boy in the first place.

"Just the way he... I don't know." He let himself slump into a chair and seconds later Missouri placed a cup in front of his nose. The freshly brewed coffee smelled like heaven, a strong scent with the hint of something syrup-y. "It's a little irritating," He finished, hoping to sound grumpy. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't even said anything particularly significant. Hadn't even mentioned his brother's name even though _Sam_ was filling out his entire cosmos, just the word. And the meaning behind it.

"So, he reminds you of your brother, huh?" She sat down heavily across from him and looked him in the eyes.

He merely nodded, not trusting himself to say anything that would _not_ sound like a childish and over all foolish whine. Hopeful thinking had never been one of his strengths.

"If you want to hear me saying that little boy is your Sammy, I can't tell you this," Missouri claimed, her voice strangely pushing.

"I... " That was so not what he had wanted to hear. He had wanted her to say that yes, surprise, his brother had come back from the dead and now they could have another chance, another life. Sam could be the little careless boy Dean had always wanted him to be. Could have a life, an awesome (_alive_) Mom even.

A mom who chose this moment to enter the warm kitchen. In front of her she pushed a curious Matt through the door, whose eyes immediately fell on the cup filled with cocoa that was waiting for him at the seat right next to the afro-american woman. He glanced at her as if asking for permission and Missouri smiled.

"Sit down, Matt. I'll get the marshmallows." Matt beamed, dimples deepening in his chubby face and Dean's heart shattered all over again, cold sweat breaking out on the palms of his hands and all of a sudden, the kitchen felt too small for him. Like it was a cage and he was the tiger.

"Sorry, I..." He swallowed down the last gulp of his coffee, burning his tongue. "Tired."

And he fled the room, Missouri's gaze following him.

-o-

Bars were the living rooms of John's life. He had everything he needed there. A TV, something to sit on and a steady supply of beers. And he didn't even have to pay rent.

It was barely after eleven when he entered the standard class bar on the other side of Kansas, far away from Missouri's home, and he quickly made his way to the counter to order with a nod at the machine from which the pudgy bar man drew the beer. It quelled the first thirst but it wouldn't suffice to get rid of the angry knot in his stomach. So he gulped it down in one rush, then pushed the empty glass towards the barman and added. "And a Jack... No, the bottle."

The barman raised his eyebrows but didn't comment which was just fine with John. He wasn't in the mood to be judged. He wasn't in the mood to do anything but drown his swirling memories somewhere at the bottom of the bottle with the ice tea coloured liquid. Burying them had taken him ages and for a while they had been dormant dragons who merely puffed some smoke out of their nostrils in their fretful sleep. But the dragons had awoken and they was roaring furiously now.

_"I hate you!"_

He almost turned around, looking for the source of the voice but he refrained, knowing very well that it was only in his head. An old memory that once had him cover his ears with clenched fists. It had turned into a dull echo, a voice coming from far away and he couldn't really remember his youngest son's voice anymore. Had forgotten how it broke funny when he entered puberty. How it had gotten deeper and deeper and had betrayed Sam's boyish looks. But the emotion behind those words, the hate, these details would never fade.

His son had hated him and it was the last thing he had said to him. And John? He had walked away, had ignored his son's hate that was just a mere plea for understanding. Maybe John hadn't pushed his son down the abyss but he had pushed nonetheless. His memories haunted him like a ghost that couldn't be burned, his dead son a steady presence in the back of his mind. A remembrance of his failure. _Another _one.

And now his failure had caught up with in form of a little boy who frightened him more than any evil sonofabitch ever could. These big brown eyes, the dimples, the hair. It all added up to the one, hateful sentence. The one truth that Sam had given him on his way to redemption. A redemption that was as improbable as deserved. John didn't deserve redemption. He deserved the hate and the anger. Deserved the blame. Deserved everything his dead son never had the chance to spit at him.

He gulped down another shot of the burning alcohol, waiting for the relief it brought. This evening, he had to wait for quite a while before it came.

-o-

Matt had sighed happily when Dee covered him with a blanket. The bed he was lying in was looking almost too big for his little frame. It was a double and Dee would lie down next to him in a minute but she wanted to sit there and stare at him for just a little longer. His little chest rose and fell evenly, the trembling wings of his nose barely noticeable. It was a moment of peace and pure bliss for her. Watching her son sleep, safe and sound, his teddy bear pressed in a tight embrace against his chest.

She put her hand against her lips to suppress a bubble of hysterical sobbing when reality crashed against her like a monster wave on the beach, snatching her feet from under her and letting her tumble, arms and legs flying.

_"If you want to hear me saying that little boy is your Sammy, I can't tell you this."_ She hadn't meant to eavesdrop but the words had been loud enough for her to hear them even through the hallway where she was coming out of the bathroom with Matt's hand clutched in hers. Missouri's words rang through her conscience while a cold comprehension settled down, opening doors in her brain that she hadn't even known existed. Or maybe she had known they had existed but had always passed them without opening. She wanted to laugh it away, look at it with pity because this was her son, no one else. This was Matt, his little angel, who had been a gift from God to her and her alone.

She pushed a strand of his hair from his forehead, his face leaning into her touch. Bowing down, she kissed him on his right cheek and before she could re-think, mumbled into his ear.

"Sammy?"

For a millisecond, nothing happened. Then he scrunched up his face as if annoyed, mumbling softly, "It's _Sam!"_


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to all the wonderful feedback givers out there. Every single review is very much appreciated. Problem is, I'm a lazy person and it would probably kill me dead to answer them *hangs head in shame*. Yes, I'm THAT lame. So thanks again.

Also, just one more chapter after this one and an epilogue and you'll be glad to hear that the constant and utterly annoying suspense is over *grins*. Have fun reading.

**Disclaimer: **HA! I wish they were mine. I also wish I had a pony. *sigh*

* * *

**~ Chapter 6 ~**

_-  
Misery sure loves company  
And nobody's ever who they seem to be  
The daily horror of people at their worst  
And most selfish, one day, your bubble will burst_

Milow - Darkness Ahead and Behind  
_-_

* * *

A loud noise woke John the next morning and it took him a few seconds to realize he had slept in the car and the strange ringing wasn't the result of last night's excessive drinking but the ringing of his phone. With a groan he put his left hand on his aching forehead to shield his eyes from the daylight which was happily streaming into the car. With his right he fumbled in his pockets for his cell.

"What?" He bellowed into the device without looking at the caller ID. Who ever it was, the person had definitely deserved his bad mood.

_"Good, you're alive then,"_ a grumpy voice greeted him. _"I've tried calling for ages. Where the hell are you?"_

John groaned again, anger flaring at Bobby's pissed tone. "Who do you think you are? My fucking mother?"

_"Did you ever see me wearing an apron and baking cookies for you?"  
_  
"Bobby...!" John grumbled with the hint of a warning.

_"Thought so. So, where are you?"_

"Missouri," John answered.

Bobby huffed questioningly _"You're in Missouri?"_

"For fucks sake, don't make me puke, Bobby."

_"So you're in Kansas,"_ Bobby reasoned. _"Dammit, don't make me worm everything outta your nose. What are you doing in Kansas?"_

"Long story."

_"Make it short then!"_

Finally, John blinked his eyes open and took in his surroundings. The Impala was still parked outside the bar he had gotten wasted in last night. His head hurt like he had shot his brains out by accident and the taste on his tongue was fouler than the stuff he usually put into a hex bag.

"Had to dump someone at Missouri's."

_"Who?"_

John's stomach clenched and he told himself it was the hunger. Ignoring Bobby's question he asked, "Why are you calling?"

_"Business."_

John sat up straighter, happy to have something to concentrate on other than little boys and helpless mothers and headaches from the pit. "What've you got?"

_"Demonic signs."_

"That's not uncommon. What else?"

_"Isn't that enough?"_ Bobby grumbled. _"Found a pattern though and I need you two to have a look at it. The signs are increasing dramatically all over the country. Got calls from Oregon, Texas and even New Jersey for heaven's sake. Must have been messy from what I was told. Young people gone missing, at least 23 in the last few weeks."_ At this point Bobby made a pause. _"Men and women, all of them 23 or 24 years old."_

John's blood pressure increased. Sam would've been 23 too. Almost 24.

_"Half a dozen showed up dead or left behind a bloody trail before vanishing."_ Bobby cleared his throat.

"What aren't you telling?"

Bobby sighed. _"Most of them lost their mother to a fire the day they were six months old."_

_Shit!_

"I'm on my way," John said and turned the ignition. "Give us a few hours."

-o-

It was a much nicer environment and much more peaceful and also much later that day when Dee woke up slowly. Her brain was evidently still asleep and she had problems connecting with her wake being while her hands unconsciously combed through the crumpled bed sheet to where her son had been all night. The place was empty and cold and Dee opened her eyes, searching the room for a sign of him.

"Matt?" She called and was quickly at ease when she could hear his laughter from somewhere downstairs. Their host lady's full voice said something and Matt responded with another delighted squeal. A look at the nightstand told Dee that it was already past ten in the morning and she was surprised she had slept more than ten hours straight. It felt good even though she felt like she could have used another twenty-four hours. Yawning, she sat up and stretched her arms over her head, her gaze falling on a bunch of clothes, lined up on the foot of the bed that looked like it would be fitting. A pair of jeans, a tee and a sweater, all of them having seen better days but Dee didn't care. It was like Gucci and Armani all at once if you had no other clothes left at all. Next to them a pair of socks and even a still packed package of white linen underwear. She dressed quickly, and then walked down the stairs, feeling like the stranger that she was in a home of a woman she had only met fourteen hours ago.

"Mom!" She was greeted by her excited son who was standing next to the stove in the kitchen, balancing a pancake on a wooden spoon. "Missouri and I are making pancakes. Are you hungry?"

Her stomach chose this moment to rumble noisily and she was surprised at her sudden appetite. The kitchen smelled delicious like pancakes and coffee. She'd have done anything to get one in this moment.

"There you are, honey," said Missouri and shoved a warm cup in her grip before leading her to the table where Dee sat down on a chair.

"Uhh... thanks." She looked at the black liquid, brown foam on the surface and felt hesitant to ask for milk and sugar. Back in Palo Alto people looked at her with disgust seeing she put two pieces of sugar in her coffee but she didn't mind. She loved the mix of bitter and sweet and the milk took the edge of the nasty aftertaste that was always left in her mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're right. Milk!" Missouri promptly added, opening the fridge to get a bottle of milk. Seconds later a small bowl filled with sugar appeared in front of her and she opened and closed her mouth, the _Thank you_ somehow stuck on her tongue.

"You're welcome, honey," Missouri replied with a no nonsense voice.

"I'm... Thank you," she finally managed to croak and she cleared her throat. "For taking us in." Looking at Matt she smiled when he balanced another pancake over to a plate where it landed floppily with one half hanging over the rim.

"No need to thank me," Missouri dismissed her with a grumpy shake of her head. "It's the least I can do."

A comfortable silence settled between them and Dee took some small sips of her coffee. "Where is Dean?"

"Dean?" Missouri huffed. "Boy got hauled out of bed at six thirty in the morning by his father. They're long gone."

"What?" Dee put down the cup. How could Dean just leave her here? "Where? Why?"

Missouri shrugged her shoulder. "As if they'd tell me." She made a disgusted sound as she got three plates out of a cupboard putting one in front of Dee, herself and Matt, who had sat down across from his mother, obviously distracted by the promise of pancakes.

"I made them all by myself, see?" He smiled, hopefully waiting for his mother's praise. "And Missouri helped."

"Just a little," The black woman dismissed.

"Great, sweetie!" Dee's smile was strained and he saw it, his face falling. "Are you okay, mom?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Because two days ago a demon wanted to kill you," He replied matter-of-factly, not even looking up from his fork with which he was attacking the pancake. "And now our home is gone."

Blinking, Dee stared at her son. A feeling like ice water trickling slowly along her spine made her sit up straighter and she swallowed convulsively.

"How... how do you know it was a demon, Matt?"

The little boy shrugged, an expression of mild confusion on his face.

"I don't know. I just ... knew it was a demon. Didn't Dean tell you?" His nose wrinkled in a disgusted manner as he tried to remember the details. "I think I've seen him before."

"When?" Matt looked spooked by her demanding tone. "When did you see him?"

"Maybe in a dream?" Missouri jumped in helpfully in and Matt shook his head.

"No, I think I've talked to him... before."

"Before what?" Dee knew she was poking in wounds she had no idea had been there a few days ago. Her son didn't answer to her question but bit his lower lip, staring at her.

"Are you mad at me?" Tears filled Matt's eyes and his little chin wobbled. It took him all he had not to start crying and Dee felt even worse. She hadn't intended to make him cry. She had merely tried to understand the sudden change in her life. The whole universe had decided to play with her perception and her beliefs and now it left her standing alone and a mess with the boy who was her son... and maybe more.

But no one was less responsible than her eight year old son who had gotten the play ball in a bizarre line of events.

"No, sweetie!" She protested, leaning forward to take his shaking left hand in her right one. "No, of course I'm not mad at you."

Matt sniffed, wiggled his nose then rubbed it profusely. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"Okay." He nodded, apparently happy with her answer. Taking a bite of his pancake he carelessly grinned at her and she grinned back, her thoughts racing and wondering, who she had been talking to about the demon. Matt... or Sam?

Missouri threw her an unreadable glance, then pursed her lips and put on a resolved face. "Dee, honey, do you know anything about past life regression?"

-o-

Dee wanted to know... but also she didn't. Torn between taking her son to run away from here as fast as she could and sitting on this chair for the rest of her life to let it float past by her, she concentrated on taking deep breaths. It didn't help but made her even more lightheaded so she just held her breath for a few seconds, then puffed it out in one long even stream.

"Are you okay?" She opened her eyes to find Missouri staring at her. "We don't have to do this."

Maybe they didn't, Dee pondered. Maybe she could just stick her head in the sand and ignore everything. Live her life just like before. Work, school, homework, raising a little son who was just a little peculiar. Every little boy was peculiar, right? Maybe it was normal for boys in his age to have that kind of imagination. Matt was just a little boy after all. He still loved his teddy bear. He loved to fall asleep with his mom singing lullabies. He loved to run around in the sunlight and pretend he's Superman, jumping of curbs and benches and steps of a staircase. He was just a little boy with his head full of stories and fantasies. And yes, he was a little bit more perceptive than others but... did it give her the right to poke in secrets that were better left buried? Heck, other boys his age had imaginative friends or dogs. Why not an imaginative former life?

The problem was, too much had happened already to turn around. She remembered her burning home, the feeling of helplessness as she slid across the wall towards the ceiling. Remembered the evil yellow eyes that were watching her with cold malice. Her life had changed already and it would never be the same again. Fate had shaken the Magic-8 ball and Dee was getting the one answer she couldn't do anything with. _Ask again later_.

"Yes, we do," She finally answered and nodded. Matt was lying on the couch, his little feet bouncing enthusiastically on the cushions. His eyes were wide open, observing his mother like he wanted to read her mind. Maybe he was because he cocked his head slightly, squinting his eyes.

"It's okay, mom," He told her, his voice carefree and excited. "Missouri is taking care of us. She'll make sure nothing's going to happen to us." His words made their host lower her head and if the woman hadn't been black Dee was sure she'd have seen a faint blush on her cheeks.

"I'll do my very best," Missouri promised with just a hint of embarassment, nodded at Dee, then turned back to Matt who returned her gaze with curious expectation.

"Matt, darling," Missouri said, her voice lower and quieter than usually. "I want you to close your eyes now and take a really deep breath. Then let it out slowly."

He did as he was told, his face a strained mask of determination. She could hear his breath streaming out of his nostrils, like he had run around too much and now was trying to get his breath under control.

"You're trying too hard, Matt," Missouri smiled. "Just relax. I'm going to do all the work. You just lie there, keep your eyes closed and listen to me."

He nodded slowly, then his face relaxed and Dee could see him melt into the soft cushions beneath him.

"Okay, Matt. I want you to imagine you're in a dark room, okay? It's not entirely dark. You can see many doors around you. And there's one door, it's green - like grass - and I always want you to keep an eye on that door because you can walk through this door if you want to come back to us. Okay?"

She didn't get an answer and Dee wondered if maybe her son had just fallen asleep. They waited a few second which felt like hours for Dee. Matt's chest went up and down in even movements, his breathing now deep and calm.

"I think..." She whispered but Missouri threw her a look that made her shut up.

"Matt, are you in that room?"

This time, Matt nodded and mumbled, sending shivers across Dee's naked arms. "Yeah. It's empty and there're so many doors."

"Can you see the green door?"

He nodded again and Dee felt her heart rate speed up.

"That's great. Just remember that if you want to leave you can just walk through that door and come back to us. You're safe. But we're just looking into some other doors first. They cannot hurt you. You're just an observer and nothing that you see can hurt you. I promise that."

_Truths can hurt so much more than physical blows_, Dee thought but kept silent.

Missouri waited another moment until Matt mumbled, a little subdued, "Okay."

"I want you to walk towards the very first door that you see. Just walk towards it and open it slowly. Maybe you can have a peek inside. Can you do that?"

With another nod, Matt reached out his hand slowly, as if seeing a real door knob.

"It's open," Matt whispered.

"You're doing great, Matt. Tell us what you see."

Sweat was breaking out on Dee's hairline and she didn't want to what her son was saying next but at the same time she was holding her breath in order not to miss anything.

"It's a little dark in here." His forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows almost touching over his nose. "But... I can see a window."

"Is it night?"

"Yes. I think it's really late." Turning his head first to the right, then to left Dee watched her son take a look around in the room that was only in his head. "I'm not alone."

"Do you feel safe?"

Matt smiled. "Yes. It's Dean." His smile widened and Dee tried to convince herself that it was just last night he was talking about. Or maybe the night in the motel. Maybe Dean had come in at some point to look if they were alright. Yes, it made sense. It really could have happened and now Matt's subconscious was remembering.

"What about your mom? Is she there too?"

Something like pain or confusion flickered over his face for a moment before he answered, "My mom? No, my mom's dead."

Dee tried to swallow the large lump in her throat but instead a sob escaped her lips. She pressed a hand against her mouth, holding the scream of denial inside. She was here. She was right here. She was Matt's mom and she was right here. Missouri threw her another look, asking without words to stay quiet and not to interfere.

"What about your daddy?"

"I don't think he's here. He left earlier because he had a job to do." His lips parted and he smiled. "Dean read a story to me before he fell asleep." He giggled. "He drooled on the book."

"Okay, Matt. Remember that you're safe and you're only watching. Now I want you to close the first door and come back into the empty room."

Even though he didn't seem happy about it Matt complied and after a few seconds he informed them, "Okay, I'm back in the room." Dee could see him shiver slightly, his eyes moving restlessly under his closed lids.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Dee wanted to know but Matt didn't hear her until Missouri repeated the question.

"Matt? Is everything alright?"

Matt's head swiveled around like he was searching the room. "I think there's someone watching me."

"Can you see someone?"

"Uhm... no. But it's cold here. Can... can I open another door?" Again, a little smile played around his lips.

"Sure, Matt," Missouri said and Dee worried about the irritated undertone in the woman's voice. "Go to another door and open it. But be careful! Are you sure you don't see anyone where you are?"

This time, Matt nodded and answered with a sharp "Positive!" The word disturbed Dee more than she would've thought possible but Missouri kept talking without a break.

"Okay, do you still see the green door?"

"Mmhm!"

"Okay, great. Remember to go there if you don't feel safe anymore. This way you can come back to us."

"Mmhm." For the second time Matt reached out with his fingers and opened an invisible door.

"What do you see?"

For a second Matt was quiet, then his face lightened up and he was grinning "The Impala. I can see the Impala. I'm sitting inside of it... and I'm driving!"

"What day is it?"

"Today?" Matt pondered for a few moments. "It's... Sunday and Dean and I we have the whole week for us. Dad is gone on a hunting trip in St. Louis with Joshua and some other hunters."

"What are you going to do?"

Matt grinned mischievously. "We're just coming back from the video store. We got... Lethal Weapon I to IV and more popcorn than even Dean can eat." He was laughing, almost giddy with joy and Dee couldn't help but ask another question, which Missouri had to repeat.

"Why are you so happy?"

"It's my birthday and Dean let me drive the car to the store." Matt beamed, excited.

"Your birthday?" Missouri asked. "What birthday?"

"I'm turning sixteen today."

"So the year is 1999?"

Sixteen! Her own son had been sixteen years old and his name had been Sam Winchester. It was too much to take in and Dee felt her mind starting to drift off, failing to concentrate on the scene in front of her. Too much to think about. Could it be it this whole thing was a hoax? Maybe Dean had implanted these memories... somehow? Maybe Dean had hoped so hard to find his dead little brother in her son that...that what? His wishes had transferred to Matt? That was the most stupid thing she ever thought of and it produced a hysterical bubble somewhere in the back of her mouth.

"Yes Ma'am," Matt dutifully affirmed Missouri's calculation which helped enough to get a grip on her sanity. She needed to hear this.

"Sorry," She mumbled and the black woman next to her threw her an understanding smile.

"Okay, Matt. You're doing great. I know you're happy where you are but can you come back into the empty room again?" A tension had crept into Missouri's words and she looked at Dee, as if asking for a permission to go on. Dee suddenly knew why.

_"His name was Sam... He died when he was sixteen."_

When Dean had told her about his little brother it had been a sad story, a grievous tale of love and loss and fate's cruelty of taking such a young life. She hadn't asked what happened. At that point she hadn't wanted to know. Now, though, she'd given anything to be prepared for the truth unfolding in front of her. Fate wasn't just cruel. It had a sick sense of humour too.

She nodded slowly, her brain not even registering the movement until Missouri nodded back and concentrated on Matt.

"Are you back in the empty room?"

Matt nodded gravely, obviously unhappy to have left the happy time from his past. "There're still so many doors," He said, awed. Again, his eyes began searching for something. "I don't think I'm alone."

"Of course you're not, Matt. We're here. We're taking care of you."

"No..." Matt whispered. "Here, in the room. I don't think I'm alone in that room."

Missouri wanted to say something but a loud crash interrupted her. A vase including a bouquet of daffodils had fallen from the windowsill. A sudden cold wind swept through the adjoining window and hastily Missouri got up to close it. Dee could see the sky had darkened even though it was merely early afternoon. It looked like a storm was coming up.

Walking around the room Missouri inspected every corner to look at every safety measure, probably making sure they were still intact. Then she let her plump body fall back into her chair with a groan.

"I made sure no one is here but I want you to walk though that open door if you don't feel safe, do you understand? Can you see the green door?"

When he nodded she asked, "Do you want to leave?" and Matt shook his head.

"No, I feel safe. And I can see no one."

"Okay, wonderful. But before you go through the next door I want you to make sure you are alone. Take a look around and listen closely. Is anyone with you?"

His face contorted with the concentration as if trying to see or hear anyone. "I'm alone. I'm sure." He paused. "I'm going through the next door now."

Dee and Missouri looked at each other, finding a strange comfort in their presence and Dee knew she had to face this, no matter what. If her son was facing it... or had faced it once already, so could she. She just wasn't sure what price she'd have to pay for it.

"I'm in the forest." Matt's voice was strangely uninflected as he recited what he was seeing. "I think Dean is close by. I can hear him mumbling... and... and I think he's mad at me." As if he was shrinking he ducked his head lower, trying to hide it between his shoulders. Then a sudden jolt went through his body and his breathing got harsher, his chest heaving with exertion.

"What's happening?"

"There was a shot. Must've been dad's... Dean is running but...I...I can't keep up. I keep falling over the roots and-ouch!" He yelped, holding his hand as if was hurt. "I scratched my hand. It's so dark. Now... I-I-I can't see Dean anymore."

This is torture, Dee thought with tears in her eyes as she listened to her son's distress.

"He's gone!" Matt yelled, close to panic and Missouri put a calming hand on his shin. "He's gone and left me alone!" Even though his eyes were closed his eyebrows were arched high, unbelieving and hurt.

"Remember, Matt. You're only watching. You're the observer. No one can hurt you," Missouri tried to soothe him again but she looked alarmed herself. "If it's too much for you, I want you to leave instantly. Do you hear me?"

Matt didn't answer for a minute, then whispered, "There's a man with yellow eyes."

Dee could see by the way Missouri gulped convulsively that she, too, was familiar with the phenomena. "What's he saying?" She inquired with a flat voice, her earlier persistence of him leaving the memory forgotten.

"I... He says I'm going to be a bad boy." There were tears collecting at the corners of Matt's eyes now, rolling down his flushed skin and vanishing into his hairline.

"Wake him up!" Dee said but Missouri didn't hear her. Or maybe she just ignored her, Dee couldn't tell.  
"Matt, this is not happening right now. It's just a memory and memories can't hurt you." _Bullshit_, Dee thought, but kept silent while Missouri tried to calm Matt down. "You're safe. But you have to tell us what the man is telling you."

Matt hiccoughed, his voice high-pitched and breaking at the next words. "He says they're not coming."

"Who? Who's not coming?"

"Dean's not coming and Dad isn't coming. I'm alone. I don't want to die alone..." His whole body jolted as if under an electrical charge and then he sat up, eyes open but unseeing.

He screamed.

"Wake him up! Now!" Dee ordered, rushing at her son's side and embracing him. The floor was hard under her knees and she felt a stabbing in it which she ignored. She could feel her son tremble, his limbs shaking so much that he probably would have fallen of the couch if she hadn't her arms wrapped around his skinny shoulders. "WAKE HIM!" She screamed again and could hear Missouri counting backwards until she reached zero. And just like that, Matt's rigid body slumped in her tight embrace. His tear drenched cheek landed on her shoulder and his thin voice was muffled by her clothes. His breathing slowed almost instantly and he sniffed a little. She could feel his eyelashes flutter against her skin when he opened his eyes. His hiccoughing fading he fiddled in her embrace until she leaned back a bit to take a look at him.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her own voice still too high.

"I think so." Matt looked down on himself and his expression implied how surprised he was to find himself back in his eight year old body. "I... remember."

"I know you do, Matt." _Sam_. She felt her face contort, as if in pain and Matt understood why.

"Do you still love me, mommy?" he said, sounding so much like the eight year old he was supposed to be and with fresh tears falling down his cheeks. Dee's heart twisted and turned as if it was a snake in a rabbit burrow.

"Of course I do, why wouldn't I?" Her thumb wiped away the wetness on his cheek. "You're my son and nothing will ever change that."

-o-

"This is the end of the world!" Bobby yelled and Dean wasn't so sure it was meant as a joke as the older man closed the door of the fridge. "Where's the beer?" Bobby hollered unhappily and looked at Dean sharply who - rather self-conscious - swallowed the last sip he had taken from the now empty bottle.

"Don't know?" Dean shrugged innocently and stared back at the map in front of him. "So, you're saying there's something that keeps the demonic activities out of this area." The map was bigger than the surface of the table it was lying on and showed the whole north-western territory of the states. Colourful dates and notes and numbers were scattered all over the area but for an unshaped blob in the middle of Wyoming.

"Apparently," Bobby grumbled and came back to the table, where Dean and his father both stood together. They had arrived at Bobby a few hours ago after a drive filled with unasked questions and unsaid answers. Dean had known they were driving to Bobby's after his father had revealed with a few short grunts about the phone call. Their relationship hadn't been the best before Palo Alto but ever since they had met Destiny - in the truest sense of words - and Matt, Dean felt like he didn't know his father anymore.

Leaving Dee and Matt behind had been tough for Dean but he hadn't even understood why. They were just two random people, right? Nothing more but two innocents in their war who they managed to save. They weren't the first people they would save and definitely not the last. Then why did it feel like he had left behind a large piece of himself? Dean shook his head, trying to concentrate at the matter at hand. They had a case to solve and even though Dean wasn't okay nor intrigued about their current plan he knew he'd have to live with it. Maybe when this whole ordeal was over he'd have a chance to give Dee a call and ask about...

"Dean! Concentrate!" his father barked grimly and Dean looked guiltily at his father, whose eyes were pinched so close that Dean wondered how he could see anything at all.

"I know that town," John said to Bobby, his right index finger pointed at the name on the map. "Lionville. We had a case of possessions there a few months back."

Dean remembered that one too well. A whole family had been possessed. A mother, father and two teenage sons aged thirteen and sixteen. Like the demons had used them to go on a Sunday picnic. The curious thing about the case was that the demons had blended in as if nothing had happened, their hosts acting as normal as they could as if they didn't want to be tracked down. A coincidence had revealed their true identity, giving John and Dean every indication they needed to do the exorcism. The parents had died in the process. The younger son, too. The older one had lived long enough to explain that the demons had been guarding something. Had expected something to happen. Not today but soon and they'd had every intention of holding out in their hosts as long as it took for the day to come. Cryptic enough for John and Dean to have a really bad feeling about it.

"Yeah, I remember, too," Dean replied and listened to his father explaining Bobby about it.

"So, you think they were guarding something?"

"Looks like it," John said. "Or waiting for something."

"There has to be some kind of barrier the demons can't cross," Bobby murmured and walked over to a large atlas heavy enough to slay someone with it.

"But what for?" Dean sunk back on a chair, rubbing his slighty stubby chin. "There must be something inside that area. And what kind of a barrier is big enough to protect such a large area?"

"I might have some answers," Bobby said and heaved the monster book back to the table. Opening it at a particular side Dean could see that the map was old. Really old. As in probably old enough to be drawn by hand.

"From when is it dated?" Dean wanted to know and leaned over the map, trying to read the quirky writings on it.

"Middle of the 19th century," Bobby said and pointed at five towns on it, arranged in a circle with a diameter of a few miles at least. "Look at those towns and compare them with the map."

For a few seconds there was silence until John Winchester gave a surprised sound. With a pencil he added the long forgotten towns to the new map, connecting them with long, straight lines until a sigil was drawn on the map so obvious that Dean gasped, "A devil's trap!"

"Yeah." Bobby nodded and John looked up.

"How? How does it keep the demons outside?"

Dean leaned closer to the map, his nose almost touching the paper. "Rails," he said. "Iron rails. Leading from one town to another."

John nodded affirmatively. "Possible. But we still need to know what it's guarding."

"I'm not sure how this is connected," Bobby answered, "but there's an old cemetery right there." With an oil-covered finger he pointed right in the middle of the pentagram.

"I don't like this," John muttered and Dean chuckled with any humour in it. His father threw him a sharp look. "We need to know why it's keeping demons outside."

"Or," Dean said sulkily. "...what it's keeping _inside_."

His father shot him another look and Dean wished his old man would stop doing that. It kept giving him the impression that he wanted to say something without actually wanting it.

-o-

The day had been exhausting. Physically as much as mentally. But still, Dee was sure she would have a lot of trouble falling asleep.

A fire was dancing merrily in the fireplace and she stared into the flames, all the while stroking through Matt's tangled hair. His forehead felt hot to her touch and his cheeks were still wet with tears after hours of crying. His hair was wet against his skull and small tremors were working their ways through his body. A tiny hiccough escaped his lips and Dee looked up to see Missouri coming closer, putting a thick woolen blanket over his small frame.

"Thanks," she said grateful for the presence of the older woman, who sat down opposite of them in a chair and got back to knitting.

After their session they had spent the day in the living room trying to get Matt to talk about what he could remember but the little boy had just shut down.

"What a day, huh?" Missouri sighed and Dee wanted to laugh about it. No, actually she wanted to cry but her body decided to make it a laugh. Hastily, she put a hand on her mouth to press down the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside of her like an overdose of coke. "No shit," she whispered after making sure her son didn't hear her cursing.

"Tsk!" Missouri made a disgruntled sound and threw her a disapproving look. "No reason to cuss, young lady."

Dee smiled and leaned back down into the pillows, willing her thoughts to rest but failing. Until one particular train of thought made her look up and stare at her hostess again.

"Missouri," she asked and the older woman looked up, eyebrows knitted together in the same angle as her knitting needles. "You knew about Matt... and about Sam."

"I didn't _know_... exactly."

"But you knew it was possible."

Missouri nodded slowly, waiting patiently for Dee's actual question.

"Then, why didn't you tell Dean about it when he asked you last night?" Dee swallowed down her horror at the memory of Dean's desperation as he had fled the room. "He... if I had lost..." Her arm curled around Matt's chest and he leaned into the warming touch. "If he knew that..." She looked down at her own son who was obviously not just hers.

Something like resentment blossomed in her chest and a scary idea crossed her mind.

_Does this mean I have to share my son with strangers?_

But was Dean a stranger? He had saved her life. Saved her sons life and it hurt her to see him suffer no matter how much of a stranger he was. She had felt the affection and compassion roll off him in strong waves whenever the topic of Sam had come up. And she had seen him look at her son with enough love to last for a whole kindergarten full of little brothers.

Missouri sighed again and put her hands down, not looking surprised at all at the question.

"Oh honey," she began and let the knitting needles sink into her lap. "Dean Winchester is an emotional sponge. You can't see his feelings on the outside but squeeze him once..." Her fingers curled in the air. "... and he leaks like a bursting dam."

Dee's clueless face made her snicker throatily but her face got serious a moment later. "How do you imagine he'd have reacted if I told him his dead brother was probably somewhere alive deep inside this little man?" She nodded at Matt and when Dee didn't answer she added, "No, there's things you can't be told. You have to learn them on your own."

She was about to go back to her knitting when a muffled noise could be heard from somewhere outside. A creaking sound like footsteps on the rotten veranda.

"Don't worry, honey," Missouri tried to calm her while she put her knitting tools aside. "This is an old house. Old houses complain once in a while but it's safer than the Winchester's car. That I can promise. And I'm not even talking about the reckless driving."

"What about demons?" Dee asked, her voice thin and shaky.

"No demons, no ghosts, no other supernatural beings in the book." While Missouri sounded confident and unconcerned Dee's worry grew as Matt started fidgeting under her hands. "We're as safe as we can be and no one can come inside these walls."

"Mom?" Matt whispered and rubbed his eyes.

"It's okay, Matt. Sleep on."

But Matt had already sat up and stared at Missouri, then into the darkness behind the window where the night was covering all living traces. "Humans can," he murmured.

"Can what?" the older woman asked confused.

Matt sat up straighter, completely awake now. "Come in."

Both woman stared at each other, adrenaline whooshing through their veins as a tall, black man appeared in the door to the kitchen. His dark eyes searching the room and resting on Matt.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice deep and rumbling yet almost sympathetic "I need you to come with me."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: The usual. Not mine. Never was and will never be. Wouldn't actually want them *lol* Got enough on my hands with my own problems.

A/N: There will a small epilogue after this chapter which I'll probably be posting tomorrow already. Have fun reading and don't forget to leave a review. Every single one is very much appreciated.

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**~ Chapter 7 ~**

_-  
Stop every clock  
Stars are in shock  
The river will flow to the sea  
I won't let you fly  
I won't say goodbye  
I won't let you slip away from me_

Tears of an Angel - RyanDan  
_-_

_

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_

Wyoming was still a few hours away, the street in front of them lengthening like a rubber band under the darkening sky and Dean felt the strong urge to open the door and jump out of the driving car.

They had left Bobby's yard in the early morning hours and had stopped only to fill up on gas, water and a family pack of Snickers, which was now lying in the backseat discarded like everything else in their relationship. Never before had his father been more alien to him than in this moment, as they passed the borders of the state and entered Wyoming. The sound of the engine was the only audible background soundtrack and for Dean it seemed like it gained volume every few miles until it was the only thing filling his head. The steady rumble and the vibrations under his feet and back were lulling him into an almost meditative state of indifference.

_So that's what it feels like to be my father_, he thought and huffed barely audible but loud enough to get his father's attention.

"What!" His father said gruffly and concentrated back on the street. It felt enticingly good considering to just ignore his father's question and sink down into the lure of not-caring what his father was thinking or doing.

"Nothing," He replied finally, giving into the urge to answer when being asked a question. Didn't have to mean he couldn't lie, right?

It was his father's turn to huff and to Dean's surprise he began to smile. Dimples appeared under the black, disheveled beard and the view was so unexpected that Dean stared at it.

"Do you know what day it is?" John asked and leaned down into the seat, as if wanting to relax.

"I don't know," Dean murmured. "Sunday?"

His father threw him a long look that said '_Use your head'_ before adding grimly, "It's Wednesday. Today is Wednesday, May 2nd."

A hammer hitting his temples couldn't have hurt more than these words and Dean stiffened, feeling sick all of a sudden. Today would've been Sam's 24th birthday and Dean had forgotten.

"Stop the car!" He said between clenched teeth and for the first time in his life John promptly did as he was asked. The car stopped, the wheels swirling up dust and dirt from the roadside producing a thick cloud in which Dean stumbled into as he opened the door and all but fell on his knees, retching helplessly.

John had the decency to leave him be for a few seconds before he got out of the car himself, rounding the car and coming to a stand next to where Dean was now standing with his upper body bowed down.

"Are you okay?"

Dean felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise somewhere deep inside and he felt disgusted and angry at the same time. At his Dad for pointing Sam's birthday and making it sound like _We have to do the laundry_ or _We're out of cleaning oil_. At Bobby for having found the case in Wyoming and therefore separating him from Dee and Matt and... more than anything else angry at himself for forgetting something like that in the first place.

Sam's _birthday_. He had forgotten Sam's fucking birthday like the return date of a library book and he blamed his father for not caring enough? What a hypocrite he was.

His father didn't move but kept looking down at where Dean was still gagging even though there was nothing left in his stomach. Carefully, he heaved himself back up and threw his father a look that should have killed if John hadn't been used to it by now.

"Fine, can we keep going then?" John said, stony-faced, and was already about to turn around and get back inside the car when Dean slammed him against the vehicle, his own disappointment fueling his anger.

"Are you happy now?" He yelled and it probably was the surprise that kept John from fighting back. Something like understanding blazed up in the older Winchester's eyes and Dean retreated a bit, his hands still wrapped around the hem of his father's shirt. "What the hell is wrong with you? You must be getting a real kick of this, aren't you?"

"Dean..." It was meant as a warning but Dean sent all caution to the wind.

"No, I don't get it, Dad," Dean said, his anger deflating quickly to make room for confusion, hurt and utter disappointment. "This is Sam we're talking about - _Sammy_ - and you act like he was our fucking lap dog."

"Watch your tongue, boy!"

"No, I've been holding back for eight years now," he spat. "Why do I get the impression that Sam's death was like an inconvenient change of plans in your book?"

The older Winchester straightened, rearranged his clothes before taking a deep breath and Dean finally took his hands of him. Then, without further warning, the older Winchester threw a punch to Dean's face. His head was being thrown backwards and Dean stumbled a few steps before he could get his balance back, rubbing his jaw.

"Don't you dare telling me what Sam's death meant to me!" John's face darkened. "You have no idea what you're talking about. And you should be glad about at least that."

_Glad? Where the hell is the reason that should make me glad of all things?_

"Should I? I don't know. You tell me! You are the one keeping the secrets."

"Dammit, Dean! Can't you just let it rest?" John's voice rose, devastation creeping into it like poison into a blood stream. "Haven't you ever thought about Sam being the one to be out of the woods? Do you have any idea what Sam would have had to face if he hadn't died?"

"Face? I don't know. Like..." Dean began sarcastically. "...maybe a career? Family? A life? _Us_?"

"No!" And this time it was a real scream, one that made Dean cringe. One that made him see that maybe he had involuntarily opened a gigantic dam that wouldn't close soon. "That's the whole point, Dean. He wouldn't have."

"What... do you mean? How do you know that?"

"Your brother was... tainted, Dean." John made it sound like it was his own fault. Like he was the one to be blamed.

"Don't say that!"

"Dean, listen!" It was pure, long-term conditioning that stopped Dean from attacking his father again. "You should be happy he doesn't have to go through what fate had in mind for him."

"Happy for him or for you, Dad?" John had the decency not to answer that question so Dean went on. "You act like he was just this huge klutz that has been taken off your shoulders. Like you didn't want to deal with him any longer. Why do you believe in some destiny crap but not in your own son? You've denied him his chance to make his decisions, the _right_ decisions."

"I didn't take _anything_ away from him."

"Maybe you didn't _take_ anything but you didn't _give _a damn, either," Dean finished, his breath coming in short gasps. "You didn't have to do anything because the _demon..." _He spat the word like it was a bitter pill on his tongue. _"..._did it for you_._"

Silence fell between the two men until Dean was the first to avert his eyes to look across the vast wasteland ahead. Somewhere in the far distance, where the sky was still a soft shade of navy blue the mountains were towering like mute witnesses. Dean felt a bone-deep tiredness creep into his bones as he made himself aware of the fact that it didn't matter how loud he yelled at his father or how much he blamed him for not caring. What happened in the past was exactly that: the past. He had spent all of his ammunition on his father, now feeling the emptiness again. It wasn't like he could do anything. Sam was dead and he would never come back.

"What I don't get is..." he mumbled and looked into his father's eyes. "The woman said, Azazel wanted Sam for something. But...why did the bastard kill him then?"

He didn't expected an answer. Knew, his father didn't have one. And it felt like a small victory when a tear escaped from the corner of his father's eye, rolling down his wrinkled skin and into the beard, vanishing. "I can give you the answer, dad," Dean went on, making sure his voice was as emotionless as he was feeling. He needed to make sure his father understood it all. "He killed him because eventually Sammy _would_ have made the right decision. But you were so scared of the possibility that Sam could turn his back on you that you didn't even consider fighting just a little bit harder to make sure Sam was on the right path. After all, in the end, _he _was supposed to be the one to kill the demon." He couldn't stand the look of devastation and acceptance in his father's face but he held his stance. "Sometimes, demons don't lie. Right, dad?"

_He _sat back in the car, watching his father's frozen stance through the side mirror. It took a while before John Winchester followed his son in the car and started the engine.

The silence even heavier than before.

-o-

The area around them was dead. There were no sounds in the forest, no chirping, no rustling, no twittering. Even the wind seemed to have died.

The pebbles under the Impala's wheels sounded like breaking bones as the car slowly came to halt. It coughed once, twice, then it was shut off and an eerie silence settled around them only interrupted by the steady ticking of the cooling engine block. The stillness inside the car was condensed enough to be cut with a knife and a funny lethargy was binding Dean's limbs to the seat.

"You wanna grow roots?" his father mumbled but the half-hearted criticism didn't even scratch Dean's surface. Disappointment and anger had killed all sense of obedience and caring he had grown up with. As an answer, he opened the door and stepped outside into the night, which was even uglier with the steady drizzle falling out of sky black enough that you couldn't even see the clouds. There was just a black blanket over them.

The place didn't just look dead. It felt dead. The trees were bare, no green on them, just naked branches. The air smelled used and full of chemical and Dean's skin started to itch.

He looked around suspiciously, all the while hugging his body against the abnormal coldness.

Dean turned up the collar of his jacket. The cloud of his condensed breath vanished quickly in the drizzle. Somewhere on the road between Palo Alto and here Dean seemed to have lost his drive. Somehow it felt like having displaced a key without any idea where to start looking for it. He had no explanation for it but the fight with his father had sucked him right to his bones. In some macabre way it felt like losing Sam all over again. Maybe this was the moment when he should take another step and leave his brother behind. Maybe, just maybe, Sam _was_ better off wherever he was. The thought made him shake his head while the corners of his lips turned up just a tiny notch. That much was true, everything was better than spending your time with one grumpy old hunter in an old graveyard. Seriously.

"Maybe we should split," he suggested as John rummaged around in the trunk.

Sure, it was a stupid thing to suggest. Experience told him, that splitting up usually meant more complications but right now, he would have given his right arm... well his left maybe... to have some quality alone time. Yes, even if it meant he'd have to spend it on a creepy cemetery in the middle of the night with nothing but a sawed off shotgun, a fire lighter and soaked clothing. Of course, his father didn't even grant him that.

"No!" John Winchester snapped, checking if the gun he was holding was loaded. "Not as long as we don't know what we're up against."

"Or at all," Dean added.

"Hey," John scolded, his voice like pebbles crunching in his throat. "We have a job to do."

"Yeah, sure," Dean muttered. "It's all I ever do. Do my job."

Yes, maybe he was a little more bitter than the situation allowed but Dean was beyond caring, especially with the stupid rain running over his neck and under the back of his shirt. California had been so much nicer even _with_ the demon.

"Dean!" his father said and handed him a gun, quickly followed by a small knife Dean hid in the side of his left boot. "This is just reconnaissance but there's no need to go in unprepared."

The road they had taken ended with a large gate. It looked old and rusty, the hinges being held upright merely by the vines and the ivy looping around like snakes surrounding the bones of a skeleton. John was the first there, his hand reaching for the iron handle bar and with a long suffering squeak one side of the gate sprang open, while Dean pulled out a flash light, lighting the path in front of them. The weed was up to their knees, the ground muddy from long rains and tombstones peeked their heads over the tangled bushes and ferns. No loving family had come here for a very long time to care for the graves, that much was clear. Dean let the bright pool of light rush over the barely readable inscription of the closest grave, claiming the death date of the poor soul to be more than a century ago.

"Looks like Bobby's backyard," John said, his voice strangely subdued in the quiet of the night and Dean knew it was supposed to be an ice breaker. He didn't buy it. Not yet. His father wouldn't get away so easy.

They had walked for a few a minutes without seeing anything out of the ordinary and Dean was about to suggest they come back in the morning, when a loud, growling thunder echoed above their heads, making the molecules in the air dance around them. Dean's skin prickled, the hair in his neck rising, and he squinted, trying to get a look at the undergrowth and the thick forest surrounding the cemetery. He half expected to see eyes staring back at him.

He looked to his right where his father was visible enough that Dean could see he felt it too. The heavy anticipation hanging in the air. The feeling of someone coming... or something. The rain lessened and the wind picked up, making the grass bow in one direction. It stole Dean's breath for a moment and he coughed into the collar of his jacket.

"Turn off the flash light," John ordered and Dean complied. It took Dean a few seconds to get used to the darkness. There was another rumbling over their heads like the growling of a huge stomach and a flash of lightning made the cemetery bright as in daylight, blinding Dean for a second. But in the nanosecond it took for him to avert his eyes he saw movement ahead.

"Ack!", he yelped and blinked a few times to get rid of the dancing dots in his visual field. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" His father replied.

"I don't know. Movement. Maybe just a falling branch."

"Very likely," John grouched and from the corner of his eyes Dean could see his father straighten up, his body preparing for an attack or danger or anything remotely surprising.

"Where?"

"This way." Dean pointed an arm at approximately 11 o'clock, his vision finally back to normal.

They walked closer, using every chance to hide behind large tombstones or boulders, a precaution that came naturally when crawling through unknown territory until they finally saw a figure walking towards a bulky mausoleum that was situated in the far corner of the cemetery. It stood slightly apart from all the other monumental buildings and was completely unremarkable with crumbling walls and a rotting but stable looking gate.

From what Dean could make out the person was a man. Black, young, normal looking. Average John Doe from across the street and as far as Dean's visual validation went, no horns, no claws, no fire spitting eyes. Heck, maybe a mourning widower or son or brother... who was spending his mourning time staring at an ancient mausoleum in the middle of the night while the sky was falling down on them.

Yeah, sure.

The tension in the air was almost palpable and Dean expected to see little flames springing from his fingers as he touched one of the gravestones to huddle behind it. With a sharp wave of his hand John pointed out they'd zero in on the guy from two sides. Dean from the right, John from the left. Immediately, John took off, moving away from Dean. His outline seamlessly blending with the darkness around him and Dean took a few steps to the right, never taking his eyes of the man, who had come to a halt a few steps in front of the crypt.

Another thunder boomed in the sky and with his shoulder pressed against a wet stone to use its cover he could feel the vibrations through the numerous layers of his clothing. Carefully glancing over the headstone he watched as the stood there, unmoving and staring at something he held in front of him with his shoulders slumped. The longer Dean watched the more he got the impression the man _was _mourning. Until he let his hands hang loosely at his side.

In his right hand, Dean could definitely detect a weapon, a colt. Long and shiny. Beautiful. Its silver muzzle reflected another flash of lightning that went down to earth somewhere far behind Dean and he chose the moment get up and make himself present.

"Hey!" The man turned around, not even trying to hide the gun and Dean could see the white of his eyes standing out sharply. "Nice weather for a walk."

"Who... are you?" The guy questioned and took a fearful glance at the crypt now behind him as if afaid something would jump out of it.

"Uhh... security," Dean improvised.

"Security? With a shot gun?"

"What can I say, I take my job serious."

"You shouldn't be here, man," the guy said and Dean thought he heard an afflicted undertone. "I have a job to do, too."

"That'd make the two of us, huh," Dean answered, his senses on full alert when the man's gaze travelled downwards to the colt in his hands, then turned back to the door, holding the colt at waist level and pushed it into a hole, like putting a key into a lock. A rattling sound came from it and the butt of the gun swirled in circles.

That's when the earth started to move with small tremors and a surprised voice came from behind him, startling him bad enough that he spun around and stared at the man who had appeared just a few feet away. A man who wasn't alone and had a large hand wrapped around the wrist of a small, eight year old boy.

-o-

"This looks like a family reunion, huh?" The demon huffed in honest surprise, his yellow eyes boring into Dean's. "Didn't expect _you_ of all people."

Dean's mind was racing, his thoughts one big mass of shock and confusion. Nausea rose in him, a sudden feeling of losing control, as he considered the possible reasons why the hell Azazel would want to bring Matt in. What was he playing at?

"Let him go!" he ordered.

"Him?" Azazel looked down to his left where Matt was standing with eyes that were almost comically large, his small hand helpless caught in the demon one's as if he was a father holding back his son out of fear of the boy running on a busy street. "Uhm..." The demon pretended to think, then shook his head. "Nope, no chance."

"Dean!" Matt's voice sounded so weak but said so much that Dean heard more in of this single word than he had in all the words that had ever reached his ears. The message _(help me - please - I don't want to die_) hit him with an impact on almost made him stumble. It sounded... familiar. Familiar enough for Dean's heart to recognize it.

_Sam._

"Please." Dean felt like a fool even before the word had slipped between his lips and hung into the air, evidence of another failure. How could he not have seen this before? How had this truth been able to behind doubt and denial?

Sam had never been just a person, a corporeal living being. He had been so much more. He had been the trusting child, the adoring brother, the rebellious son. _Sam_ had been the way his lips curled when he wasn't happy or the way he put the tip of his tongue between his lips when he concentrated. The way he could speak volumes with just a single _Dean_. How could Dean have missed all this when it had been in front of him all the time?

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean whispered and for the first time in his life he didn't care how pathetic he sounded.

"Ooooh," Azazel cooed, all puppy eyes, but didn't let go of the boy. "That is so tragic, Dean, to have you present while I get rid of him a second time." Azazel's head tipped to the side as he looked at something behind Dean's back. He resisted the urge to turn around and see what had caused the demon's concentration to wander. The ground beneath him vibrated and squirmed like he was standing on a living matter, stretching itself awake after a long nap whereas the sky seemed to come down on them. The wind picked up bringing the stench of decay, death and heat and thunder and lightning took turns, like a well-rehearsed orchestra following an invisible conductor.

Something else intermixed with the cacophony of the storm, like a choir in the background pitching in with a blood-curling crescendo. Dean thought he could hear voices and screams and when he finally did turn around he could see the gate had opened, releasing a gush of black mist. The earth was spitting out its contents and polluting the world with darkness. Dean could recognize a demonic cloud when he saw one and this was a demonic invasion the world had not yet encountered.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was watching his father who had stepped out of his hiding place. His father was surging towards the gate but the information his eyes delivered somehow didn't connect with his brain. It was like staring at a big screen with Dolby Surround Sound. The stranger who had opened the gate had already stepped away from it and when John reached him he was wiped away with a short lifting of an arm like some meddlesome mosquito. He flew through the air and landed in a heap somewhere close to the treeline. Dean hadn't realized he had held his breath until he could see his father's figure stumble back on his feet, already back on the offensive.

"This is so exciting, don't you think?"

The question made him turn back towards the one who asked it and Dean's gaze met with the boy's.

Dean had to yell over the earsplitting noise. "What do you want with him? Why Sam?" He wasn't really sure whom he meant with Sam. His dead brother or the child but in this moment he didn't care. Past and present met with a painful clarity as the brother's eyes met once again. "He's just a child."

"It didn't stop me the first time. What makes you think it will this time?" The demon snickered. "Anyway, the little tyke here..." Azazel clapped his right hand on the closed fist in which he still held the boy. "...has the tendency to not stay dead. So, this time, I'll make it right. Hell will make sure he's safe and warm and at least down there I have my little helpers who are having an eye on him so he won't get away again."

"You _bastard_," Dean whispered and there was so much rage in him that he was convinced if he only cursed long and loud enough, mere words and credo would kill the demon.

"Hell, yes! Of course I am," Azazel smirked, his yellow eyes twinkling with a sickish glow that mirrored the one from his eyes. He moved his hand-just a small wave like he was winking at a friend on the street-and Dean could feel himself flying through the air. It felt like he had rounded half the planet before he was stopped by a tree. Pain exploded in his shoulder and threatened to take his consciousness but sheer will managed to keep him awake. Hissing loudly, he took a breath while ignoring the pain, leaned against the tree to steady his rise and pressed his arm against his chest with muscles screaming in protest. Forcing his body to straighten he watched as the demon walked towards the gate. Only ten yards separated him from the Mausoleum, from which still a steady stream rose like smoke from a chimney. One single black cloud that had nothing to do with the weather swept over their heads billowing almost lazily like an deathly oil carpet on the ocean. Suddenly, with the force of an exploding volcano, the barrier around the cemetery was breached, causing the black cloud to swirl hectically and scattering its demonic cargo in all directions.

_This is bad. This is really, really bad_, Dean thought, unsure how things could have gone down so fast. He needed time to breath. To think.

Devastation threatened to overwhelm him and he closed his eyes, just for a second. The pain in his shoulder doing the rest as dots began dancing in front of his eyes.

"Dean!" Dean was being pulled back from his shock by the voice of his dad, who was back fighting with the tall, black man, ducking under a powerful blow that would have made his skull shatter. Instead, a headstone was blown to pieces by the strong blow. This was no normal man, Dean knew. It had to be something else. "Move! Get the boy" His father bellowed harshly as Dean still didn't move and it was like his mind woke. From one second to the left he could hear again. The pandemonium of hell opening its front door and Matt was right in the middle.

No! Not Matt._ Sammy_!

"Oh God!" Dean murmured and looked back at Azazel, who held the struggling boy in front of him like some dirty garbage bag. Sam fought, his little legs kicking in vain while his eyes were concentrated on the wings of the open gate. Whitish, transparent strings reached for the boy like ghostly fingers and he screamed. Screamed so loud that even the apocalyptic storm around them was subdued by comparison. Without thinking Dean dashed forward, intending to tackle the demon out of the way if necessary. The actual impact caught him by surprise and he didn't even lift his arm to break his fall as the demon was falling by his side. Matt was cast aside like a bag of potatoes but Dean didn't have time to make sure he was alright. Jumping back onto his feet he prepared for another invisible attack.

"You're starting to annoy me," Azazel hissed and his lips parted in a grim sneer. "I'll make sure you follow your brother quickly." Dean didn't have a chance to try another attack as he was thrown into the air for the second time, arms and legs flailing to prepare his body for another painful collision with something a body should not confront at such speed. Luckily, he landed on a patch of grass, his reflexes sending him in a wild tumble until he came to rest with his face down. His ears were filled with the rush of blood as he scrambled back on his feet, only marginally aware of shots ringing out somewhere to his left and the black man was down. His father was rushing to the gate, pushing with all his might against it. John would have to deal with the gate on his own. All Dean needed to find was Sammy.

Dean's heart thumped against his ribcage in time with the thudding of his hurt shoulder as he watched Azazel stand erect where he had last seen him while Sam was huddling behind a slanted gravestone with his knees pressed against his chest. From his position the demon obviously couldn't see the boy but Dean was pretty sure that wouldn't last long. Scraping together the last bits of his sense Dean pulled the gun from where it was sheathed in the waistband of his jeans and aimed at the man, pulling the trigger twice before lowering the weapon. Not that it did any harm but it filled Dean with a sense of grim satisfaction as Azazel turned to him, then looked down at his chest where two entrance wounds were visible. Black puddles were starting to grow for a moment before the demon laughed.

"Is that all you got?" He threw his head back, cackling with malice. His hand stretched out and Dean expected another invisible attack... but it didn't come. "You and your father, you've always been thorns in my flesh. Tiresome little, rodents you are. You are nothing! _Nothing_!" He was hissing like a cat. "Filthy little cockroaches."

The gun in his hand was useless. Just as well he could have thrown grass blades at the demon.

He needed distraction. Needed Sammy to be safe.

Needed Sammy.

He emptied the gun, just for the sake of it, and the demon laughed scornfully, throwing his head into the air like he was laughing about a particularly funny joke. Maybe he did. Very quickly he looked to the place where he had last seen Sam, not knowing whether he should be relieved or worried by the fact that he was gone.

"Dean!" He heard his father's voice behind him, jumping out of the way the moment his father yelled, "Down!" A bullet flew past his head, burning the air. "Get the boy. I'll try to keep him distracted," John Winchester yelled, his voice hoarse with exertion. Rather ungracefully Dean jumped over a large rock and landed flat on his stomach-almost having fallen on Sam. The little boy had his arms wrapped around his knees, the horror and the fear of the last few minutes or hour or even days visible in his huge eyes, staring at Dean as if seeing him for the first time. Dean wanted to wrap his arms around him and run away as fast as he could but it was out of question. Not as long as they yellow eyed son of a bitch was still out there.

This had to end. Tonight.

"Don't! Move!" He mouthed and Sam nodded almost imperceptibly, biting on his lower lip and folding in on himself like he wanted to become invisible.

Dean jumped on his feet and looked over the rim of the stone. His father was still shooting even though it was proving meaningless. The bullets couldn't do anything but rip holes in the demons clothes. Dean could see John was out of breath after the fight, limping badly as he slowly closed the distance to the demon. His face was covered with blood from a nasty cut over his eyes and he spit some on the ground.

"You killed Mary," John said and wiped blood from his eyes to be able to see. "You son of a bitch killed Mary. And you killed my son."

"All for the greater good, John-boy," the demon cackled maliciously and his lips contorted into a bizarre smile. "You have to look at the grand scheme. You should know that, John. After all, it was you who knew about it all along. You and your torn little conscience."

John slowly took a step forwards, the gun still held in front of him even though it was useless.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't take me for a fool, John," Azazel chided. "I know that you know. And I know that you know that I know that you know," He snorted, apparently amused. "I always wanted to say that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh come on, Winchester. I know you're anything but an idiot. Remember the greater scheme? The one where Sam was meant for me from the beginning? The one where Mary sold her son so _you_ could live? That's so poetic, don't you think. Sometimes I think, us demons-we're not the cruel ones at all."

John didn't reply and it was all the answer Dean needed. He wheezed as he stumbled backwards and it was only then when Azazel addressed Dean. "Yes, Dean. That's what your father has been hiding for years." In a dramatic gesture he pressed his finger on his lips. "Ooops, now I spoiled all the fun."

Dean's vision blurred. The beating of his heart was painful against his ribs and it felt like it wanted to pump itself out his body through his throat.

"Sam had to die so you could live?" He rasped, staring at his father and he didn't care that this was like a cheap jurisdictional TV show with Azazel as the judge.

"Die? Oh no," Azazel interrupted. "I didn't really want Sammy to die, see? Well, not originally. Why would I want him dead when he could be worth so much more alive and kicking? My right hand. The leader of my army. He would have made an amazing leader." Azazel shrugged. "Well, until my little Ava told me about Sam's..." He spit out the last word in disgust. "..._decision_."

"My son would have killed you," John confirmed and now it was his turn to smile. There was a pride in his voice that Dean had never heard there before. Pride, love and a deep contentment that made the smile in his face honest and bright.

"_Would_ have, mind you. Because I'll just kill him again. And if you take him away from me, I'll just find him again. But..." He trailed off and smirked. Holding his arm in front of him he formed a fist with his fingers and even in the barely moon-lit darkness Dean could see his father's eyes widen and within seconds his face was turning blue. With jerky, uncoordinated movements John Winchester grabbed at his throat as if trying to get rid of a noose that wasn't there. His mouth opened but instead of sound a rush of blood appeared between his lips, covering his chin.

"Dad!" Dean yelled and panic made him forget anything but the sight of his struggling father. Made him forget about the demon and Sammy and the fact, that he wasn't miraculously immune to the demonic power. His feet lost ground and his vision grayed as he, too, was being hauled into the air.

-o-

His head hurt. It was obviously too small for his thoughts.

Sam blinked his eyes sluggishly, wiping away the wetness he could feel on his eyelashes. When he lowered his hands he stared at them like seeing them for the first time. In some way, he did. These were his hands. He had known them all his life. A life that was as long as his memories lasted. But he also remembered bigger hands. He remembered the feeling of his fingers curling around the hilt of a knife long enough that it was protruding from the back of his attackers after ramming it into their soft stomachs. He remembered pulling the trigger of a .45, shooting bottles from a chopped tree. His thoughts were racing, sending controversial feelings into his mind like balls into a lotto bowl and someone was jumbling them all together.

Sam... Matt... Sam.

A zapping between personalities that made him sick to his stomach as much as to his mind.

Only Dean was the one thing that held them both together. He remembered Dean as clear as if he had never left him. Like he had grown up with him _again_ even though a part of him (_Matt_) had only met him.

Dean.

Sam cringed, his back pressed painfully against the hard surface behind him as Dean landed in a heap in front of him and lifted his eyes to look at him.

His brother's name was on the tip of his tongue but fear and confusion was holding it back while a myriad of expressions flickered of Dean's face in just a fraction of a moment. Relief, fear, recognition, pain. Their eyes met and Dean ordered him not to move right before jumping back on his feet and storming away like he couldn't get away from Sam fast enough. It felt almost like a physical pain when Dean vanished out of side but yet he knew when to listen to his brother.

So he didn't just not move but _froze_. So afraid of the rising and falling of his chest that he held his breath and curled even more around himself, pressing his knees against his forehead. Maybe, if he couldn't see the demon, the demon couldn't see him either? All the noise made him dizzy and he was sure he would have fallen if he hadn't been sitting already but realized it was just the lack of air that made his vision grey. When he took a much needed breath, the air rushed into his lungs and he was surprised how much it hurt to breath. Breathing shouldn't be painful.

When he looked back up Dean was still gone and panic blossomed inside of him, banishing all the other thoughts but _Dean, Dean, Dean_.

He could hear voices, could hear his name spoken out loud by someone but he didn't know whose voice it had been. Everything was so muddled until a pain, worse than anything he had ever felt before (both his lives combined) threatened to make his head explode. His body jerked involuntarily, muscles contracting and the back of his head slammed painfully into the stone surface behind him. He knew he wasn't allowed to, tried to hold it back, but a scream escaped his lungs, that made his ears ring. Everything else, the graveyard, Dean, John, his mother and Missouri. Even the demon and the terrible cold were distant memories and everything he knew was pain.

Pain and a vision that was unfolding in front of him like a rapid sequence of images. The pictures weren't clear, the outlines blurry and the movements jerky, like under short bursts of light. But he could see enough to know what it meant.

The experience didn't last longer than a few seconds but it felt like a lifetime and when he came back to his senses he found himself lying on his back awkwardly, his fingers still twitching with the unexpected agony of the fit.

Someone was calling his name and this time he knew who it belonged to.

Dean.

"No Sam! Stay where you are!" He heard his brother's quenched yell. Rough, like someone was squeezing his throat.

"If you want your brother and your father to stay alive you really shouldn't." This time it was the demon's voice and Sam knew what he had to do. Had just seen it. Although, he might have known it already long before. The realization made him feel better, stronger and lighter than he had ever before. As if some huge weight had been lifted off of him. This new knowledge made him feel like he had a goal and now even the means to reach it.

On wobbly legs, he stood up. Slowly and with one hand leaning on the stone that had provided cover. His head was hurting, throbbing in time with the beating of his heart and in some ways it helped. It helped banish the pure fear that was about to freeze his movements. Instead, he concentrated on walking. When he looked up, he could see the demon, both arms outstretched. Where he was pointing he could see Dean and his father being held into the air like puppets on strings. Dean was struggling with back against a tree, John's against a large crucifix that stood on one of the graves. While Dean was staring at him, his hands on his throat, his father had stopped struggling and his limbs were merely twitching even though his mouth was still wide open, yapping for air like fishes on the shore. A strange calmness settled into Sam all of a sudden. A clarity that was draining his head of all emotions like fear and worry and all that existed was the truth that he had seen in his vision.

His destiny. Whatever the price.

His fate unfolding even though the demon had done his best in trying to change it... but couldn't. Maybe the demon was responsible for it in the first place and had shoveled his own grave, in the truest sense of meaning. A smile played on Sam's lips as he neared the crypt, never taking his eyes of the demon who looked confident enough not to realize what Sam was up to. The hell gate was closed again, the Colt exactly where the vision had foreseen it, and Sam pulled it out of its place the same instant as the demon cried out in anguish and let go of both older Winchesters. Their bodies fell to the ground, not strong enough to hold their own and Sam knew this was it. This was the moment he had died for. Literally.

The Colt was surprisingly heavy and it almost slipped through his sweaty fingers as he aimed it at the demon. His outline wasn't clear through Sam's hazy view and as he hiccoughed the gun jerked in his hands like a frog ready to jump. He tightened his grip, exhaled and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the shot made him stumble backwards and he landed on his butt, all air being pressed out of his lungs. The colt felt out of his useless finger and landed somewhere close to him.

It didn't matter now. He had either shot the demon or would be dead pretty soon. His delicate body had enough of any of it. Blackness crept along the corners of his vision and he was pretty sure he would black out pretty soon anyway with his head still being tortured by a nagging pain.

Being a kid sucked.

-o-

A shot rang out, sharp and clear. An almost musical sound in Dean's ears.

The ground was rushing towards him and all air that had still been in his lungs rushed out of him. His chest was screaming in pain as he managed to take a breath that almost knocked him out in an instant. Something in his airway rattled but the feeling diminished with the next breath. And then with the next until he could find the energy to raise his head from his lying position on the wet ground. The gravestones were towering above him, blocking his view. The echo of the shot was still reverberating over the distant treetops as he crawled a few feet before finding something to lean himself against.

_Sam._

The breath stuck in his throat again as he couldn't see the little boy (Sam - _his Sam_) anymore. Couldn't see the demon. Couldn't see his father either.

"Sam?" He croaked, his voice catching in his throat and he fought himself up into a more or less standing position, with one hand leaning heavily on a gravestone.

There was the demon, stretched out as if sleeping a few feet away from him with a black hole in his chest. From the wound, fissures seemed to have shattered his whole body like he was made of glass. Dean could see small fires jumping from one fracture to the next like grasshoppers. The man's eyes were open, staring into the sky and when Dean followed his gaze he could see cracks opening in the cloud cover, stars twinkling curiously at what was happening down on earth.

"Sam? Dad?"

The only answer he got was the distant grumbling of the sky. For the fraction of a second lightning was illuminating the clouds on the horizon.

"Sammy?" Next to one of the gravestones he could see movement and he was running towards it before he even realized it. The little boy was on his hands and knees, breathing loud enough that Dean could hear it from ten feet away. With a miserable cough he looked up, his eye movement uncoordinated and his eyelids dropping. "Sammy, are you okay?" Letting himself sink down beside him Dean took Sam's face between his hands and stared at the large eyes that were blinking sluggishly, pain clouding them over. A thin trickle of blood was running out of Sam's nose and he licked it from his upper lip, his face showing surprise and confusion. But only for a second. Then recognition made the boy's face light up with a careful enthusiasm that made Dean's eyes water.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me," Dean breathed and relief was threatening to make him loose all reservations before he swallowed and got his emotions back in line. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you somewhere?"

"No, I'm f-fine. Dad?"

Sammy was awkwardly looking to his right, his face still captured between Dean's dirt-streaked fingers, and when the older brother followed his gaze the joy and relief crumbled fast.

"Dad?" Dean echoed his younger brother's call and got up, helping Sammy to his feet when the boy stumbled and lost his balance.

John Winchester's eyes were wide open and his gaze turned towards Dean and Sammy. His chest was moving rapidly up and down and beneath all the blood his face was the colour of ash when Dean and Sam staggered closer.

And no matter how often Dean blinked his eyes, his blurry vision kept seeing the same thing. From between his father's rips the rusty pike of a crucifix - once a proud sign of forgiveness and hope on the grave of a poor soul - was protruding. Now it was the ironic monument of John Winchester's last battle.

"Oh my God," Dean breathed and next to him, Sammy kneeled down. The younger one's face on the same height with his father's as John Winchester blinked once, twice. Tears were pooling in the corner of his eyes and blood was bubbling from between his lips. It was clear to both, Sam and Dean, that this was a fatal wound. No demon, no magic colt, no nothing could undo this. John Winchester was dying.

"Sammy?" It was almost too quiet for Dean to hear it but still, the stunned regret and sorrow that his father was showing was more than Dean could bear. There was so much in his words. Regret and joy, disbelief and conviction at the same time. "I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm so sorry." A sob wreaked his body and he moaned, while Sam was holding his head and stroked his fingers over his father's forehead.

"It's okay, Dad," the little boy said, his voice strong and even though Dean didn't see his face he knew his little brother was smiling as he said the next words, right before John Winchester shuddered and closed his eyes forever.

"I don't hate you, Dad. I promise."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** *sigh*... Any further questions?

**A/N:** This is it. I really hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, leave a review. You'd make me really, really happy.

* * *

**~ Epilogue ~**

_-  
Forgotten thoughts of yesterdays  
Through my eyes I see the past_

Puddle of Mudd - Drift and Die  
_-_

* * *

**July 21st, 2007, Singer Salvage Yard**

The evening was warm. Flies were buzzing around and the smell of oil, grease and well-done steaks hung in the air, creating the feeling of home and family. He could almost hear Sam's complaints that he wanted salad instead of greasy meat. That he didn't want to train because he still had that essay to write. That he was sick of having to hunt. Dean snickered into the bottle of beer on his lips as he remembered that particular day almost nine years ago and his smile expired slowly, turning into a sad frown.

He couldn't hear Sam's complaints now. What he could hear was Bobby's throaty laughter and Sam's bursts of giggles as he played chess the older hunter in the dining room and kicking his ass in the process. A lightness that had nothing to do with the delicious beer in his hands made his stomach do flipflops. Like a whole swarm of butterflies was playing Quidditch in there.

The familiar sound receded into the background as he let his mind wander, enjoying the rare moment of peace before he'd have to take off again earlier than anticipated, probably still before the weekend was over. The evil didn't make holidays after all. As much as Dean wished, he would never get the apple pie life and the Sunday picnics that other families had. It didn't mean that Matt couldn't.

Matt, for once, who was as much Sam as he could without being him. There were differences between the Sam in Dean's memory and the one in the present. Most of them were good... like the way Matt laughed as if he had no worry in the world. It was amazing how fast the kid had bounced back after killing Azazel. It was as if nothing has happened. Or, as Dee had explained to Dean, as if Matt knew exactly what happened but had the admirable ability to take it as it is. Just accept it without much question. It was what differentiated the little boy from Dean's Sam, the old one. An unexpected wisdom that usually came with a long and rough life style but with the advantage of having the carelessness of a childhood that had been denied to his old self.

Sometimes, Dean still wondered how much _Matt_ was in this boy or if maybe there was no Matt at all and had never been. This new Sam was probably just another version of his old Sam. A purged one. One who had known it all and now was merely living what destiny had in mind for him, no pun intended.

Nevertheless Dean recognized Sam as who he was. When he looked him in the eyes there was that wondrous little boy back from 1991 who adored his big brother and wanted to be just like him. There were these small gestures that Matt did automatically. Like making a big step over every threshold to protect the salt lines. Like biting his lip when he concentrated or pleading with these damn puppy dog eyes.

From the distance he could hear the sound of a motor running and leaned a bit forward to look around the tower of wrecked car to look at the oncoming vehicle, a small Toyota covered with dust from the street. Dee winked out of the driver window as she recognized Dean, a bulky package in her hand. Slowly, the car came to a halt directly in front of the entrance even before Dee had left the car Dean could hear trampling little feet running through Bobby's kitchen and seconds later flying out of the door. Matt almost bumped against Dean before making a small step to the side and jumping over all three steps to the ground. With open arms Matt greeted his mother, bouncing up and down on the soles of his feet as he tried fishing for the package in Dee's hand.

"Please, mom. I need to have it!"

Dee laughed, then gave him a kiss on the forehead and gave him the package which Matt ripped open with much enthusiasm to reveal a book.

_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

Matt was staring at the picture in the front, a big smile plastered on his face as if he was just given his own freaking pony.

"Thank you, mom!" He beamed with joy whereas Dean managed not to cringe at the word "mom". His met Dee's eyes and for a second there was something like discomfort in it. Something, that Dean had gotten used to over the last month and a half. He felt like a father in the middle of a fight for child custody. Problem was, he had no legal rights. None at all. It pained him beyond anything to know Sam was not "his" Sam anymore. That there were rules he had to follow if he wanted to spend time with his brother. The fact, that it would have been an easy thing for Dee to just take Sam and leave was more than he could bear so he pushed the thought away and greeted her with a nod of his head.

"Hey, Dee!"

Her serious expression changed into an understanding smile and she watched with delight as Sam sat down next to Dean on the topmost step of the stair, dismissing the paper wrapping with a wave of his hand.

"Do you want me to read it with you?" Dee asked and walked to the car to get some bags of grocery for their dinner.

Next to Dean, Sam bit his lip and started to chew. A clear sign that there was something on his mind.

"What is it, kiddo?" Dean asked, strictly avoiding calling the boy Sam when his mother was around. That would've been way too awkward.

"We could read it together?" his mother proposed at the worried expression in her son's face.

"But..." Sam began, then looked at his mother, his back straightening and his head held high. "I want to read it with my brother."

Dean hadn't even realized he had held his breath as Dee stared at him, her lips twitching with words on her tongue that wouldn't come. Finally, she nodded and Dean knew she complied. Maybe she wasn't happy with it. Maybe she didn't understand. But Dean knew she'd deal with it because they were family now. Maybe not by blood but by Sam.

"Cool!" Sam squealed and jumped up with energy only eight year old could muster. Trying to hide his amused expression Dean lowered his head, acting as if there was something immensely interesting on his shoes while Sam's footsteps grew fainter.

Rubbing his right hand on his neck, Dean kept staring down but it was clear Dee wasn't quite finished. Sighing, she put the bags on the ground and sat down on the place that Sam had occupied seconds before.

"Will you be leaving soon?" She asked, sounding almost regretful.

"I don't know. Tomorrow. The day after that at the latest. Chupacabras in Virginia." He felt like he had to explain himself but she just nodded.

"When will you be back?"

"Not sure. In a week. Maybe two."

"You know this is no life for... Sam." She emphasized his name and Dean knew she was right.

"This is no life for anyone," he confirmed and rubbed his hand over his chin. He avoided looking at her. Was afraid of what he would be seeing.

"I want you to know," she began and cleared her throat, "that your brother will be here when you come back." He finally looked at her and she smiled warmly. "I promise."

Maybe, it was all he could hope for in the moment.

Maybe, it was all he wanted to hope for in the moment.

Either way, it was a nice beginning.


End file.
